


From This Day Forward: Pining And Prejudice

by flawedamythyst



Series: From This Day Forward [1]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Arranged Marriage, Child Abuse, Deaf Clint Barton, Disabled Bucky Barnes, Domestic Violence, M/M, PTSD, Pining, Slow Burn, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22790587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: There was a flower-covered carriage waiting to take them to the wedding breakfast. Once inside, Clint couldn't stop himself from curling over his knees, desperately trying to take a deep breath. He'd just bound himself to a stranger for the rest of his life. What had he been thinking?There was a brief touch to his shoulder and he looked up to see Barnes giving him a concerned look. “I promise it won't be that bad.”When Clint's father decides that he should marry the wounded war hero Lieutenant Barnes, Clint doesn't get a lot of choice in the matter. Still, no matter how bad Barnes is to live with, surely it couldn't be worse than staying in his father's house. Could it?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: From This Day Forward [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638448
Comments: 264
Kudos: 886
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a very long time in the making, and Kangofu_cb and Villainny have been right there with me for every step of the way. It's hard to overstate how completely indebted to them I am.
> 
> This is the first of four fics in this series, all of them 3 chapters long, and in total coming to over 100,000 words. I expect them all to be posted within the next two months. This fic covers my Winterhawk Bingo square of 'Brooklyn'.
> 
> I have taken some minor inspiration from the Sharpe series, so if you know it and something looks familiar, that's probably why.
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> Header by drgirlfriend. 

“Mr Barton,” said Lieutenant Barnes, loudly and clearly enough for Clint to hear despite his temperamental hearing. Clint attempted a smile as Lieutenant Barnes took his hand, focusing on his mouth so he wouldn’t miss it if he spoke again.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he managed, although it was nothing of the kind. From the wry smile Lieutenant Barnes gave him, he heard the lie.

“Excellent,” said Clint’s father, clapping his hands together. Next to him, Clint’s mother flinched at the loud noise and folded a little tighter into herself. “Let us go into my study and discuss the financials.”

He was drunk, of course. He was always drunk these days, as the family fortunes slipped closer and closer to bankruptcy and Lord Barton, Baron of Waverley, became more and more of a joke to the rest of polite society.

_Did you hear about his behaviour at the Duke’s ball? Outrageous!_

_And the son’s no better, you know. Gambling and fighting. I hear he was in another duel last week._

That was Barney, of course. No one ever said anything about Clint because his father kept him at home, out of sight. Society was no place for a useless half-deaf son, after all. The second son who couldn’t join the military or the priesthood because the Baron had beaten him too hard as a boy, and yet somehow it was considered to be Clint’s fault that he was still at home. As though Clint would still be anywhere near here if he had another choice.

Now, it seemed that the Baron had finally found a use for Clint.

Lieutenant Barnes managed to keep an impressive poker face at the Baron’s vulgar reference to money, looking stoic as he followed him into his study. Clint watched them disappear to haggle over his future and took a deep breath so that he wouldn’t scream.

Barney waved a hand to catch his attention. “He’s not as scarred as they say,” he signed at Clint with a grin.

Clint glared at him and escaped to the archery range in the grounds.

Lieutenant Barnes had been one of the country’s most eligible bachelors when he’d started going about in society. He hadn’t just been handsome, charming and the heir to a massive fortune, he was also close friends with Captain Rogers, the dashing military hero. Lieutenant Barnes had been right at his side at the battle of Talavera when he’d captured one of Napoleon’s eagle standards, even though they’d belonged to different regiments and should have been at opposite ends of the battlefield.

Captain Rogers and Lieutenant Barnes had returned to England after Talavera to present the Eagle to the Prince of Wales, in an effort to secure more men and funds, and at once every debutante had set their sights on them both. Only Captain Rogers’s background and the fact that, although Lieutenant Barnes’s family were rich, it was a relatively recent wealth from trade rather than the kind of land-rich wealth that the gentry valued, had kept the highest echelons of society closed to them.

And then, not long after returning to Spain, Lieutenant Barnes had been captured by bandits. There had been no word of him for over a year and when he’d finally made it back to England, he’d been missing an arm and was scarred in both body and soul. That had ended the interest from the débutantes, especially as he’d stuck close to his estate of Brooklyn after that, rather than attending the events of the London Season. No one wanted to marry a man who was so obviously damaged.

Or so Barney had told Clint when he’d been filling him in on all that he’d ever heard about Lieutenant Barnes while he’d been at the kinds of social events that were denied to Clint.

Clint had rather sympathised, given that he would likely have attracted just as little attention from potential suitors, if he’d ever been allowed into a situation where he might meet them. No one wanted a husband with bad hearing and the lack of social graces that came from never having been allowed to go to balls, or dinner parties, or even to tea at the next house over, for fear of embarrassing the family.

Or at least so Clint had thought, up until Lieutenant Barnes had approached Lord Barton with an offer for his hand. Given that Lord Barton was desperate not to have to sell any more of the Waverley estate, and Lieutenant Barnes apparently wanted a spouse badly enough to offer to marry anyone, even a man he’d never met who hardly anyone outside of the immediate family had ever even spoken to, Clint didn’t think he had any chance of protesting the match. His father wasn’t going to let anything as meaningless as Clint’s feelings stop him from making some money and getting rid of his least favourite family member.

Clint reached the range and settled into shooting, trying to put what might be happening in his father’s study out of his mind. None of this was up to him. The Baron would extort whatever he could out of Lieutenant Barnes and get to wash his hands of Clint, or Lieutenant Barnes would decide being a bachelor wasn’t so bad and leave Clint here to rot. Clint didn’t even know which would be worse. He wouldn’t be able to escape either, once the deal was done.

It was hours before anyone came out to Clint. When they did, it wasn’t the servant that Clint had been expecting to summon him to his fate, it was Lieutenant Barnes. Clint didn’t hear him coming and jumped a mile when he stepped into view less than a foot away.

“I’m sorry,” said Lieutenant Barnes, then hesitated and carefully signed the same thing.

“You know sign language?” asked Clint, surprised into forgetting all the lessons on polite conversation that had been drummed into him.

“A little,” said Lieutenant Barnes. “It seemed something I should know, if we are to marry.” He shrugged the shoulder of his missing arm in a pointed way. “Much of it is not easy for me.”

Clint didn’t know what to say to that. Only Barney had ever bothered learning sign with him, back when they were both children and it had felt enough like a secret language for him to get excited. Their father, out of frustration at not understanding, had forbidden them from using it after only a few months; this had only added to the illicit thrill.

And then they’d got older, and Barney had found other people to spend time with. People who only ever seemed to get him into trouble.

“And are we to marry?” asked Clint, then wondered if he should have found a less direct way to ask. This was his life though, and it was being decided by his father - who hated him - and a stranger whose motivations he hadn’t yet worked out. He’d like to know the worst as soon as possible.

“That was what I was going to ask you,” said Lieutenant Barnes. He spoke clearly, so that reading his lips was as easy as it ever was with someone Clint didn’t know well. “Your father and I have come to an agreement.” Clint couldn’t hold in a flinch at that, one that Lieutenant Barnes clearly noticed but chose to ignore. “But if you say it’s not what you want, I’ll tell him I’ve changed my mind and end the whole thing.” He hesitated, then added, “I’d make sure the fault was mine, not yours.”

That implied he’d recognised rather more about their family dynamics than Clint was comfortable with. He looked Lieutenant Barnes over, taking in the good looks that still shone through despite the loss of his arm and the lines of stress and pain that were carved on his face. Did he want to marry him? He knew barely anything about him.

Once they were married there would be no escape. His mother’s situation had taught him that. Marriage was as good as a prison sentence if you found that your spouse wasn’t the person you’d thought they were when you made your vows. You couldn’t leave, couldn’t ask for protection from society, couldn’t even get away for a break unless you’d both agreed to it. The church had decreed that you and your spouse belonged to each other as one flesh, and so you were bound together forever. And if one of you beat the other or mistreated them, well, there was nothing anyone else could do. No one could separate those God had joined together. 

If Clint said yes to Lieutenant Barnes, he was running the risk of finding himself in his mother’s situation.

He didn’t want to stay trapped in this house though, with the violent unpredictability of the Baron and the silent terror of their mother, and the way Barney got more like their father every day. Clint was already trapped in a situation he couldn’t escape, so he might as well take the chance that things would be different with Lieutenant Barnes.

“Do you have an archery range at your house?” he asked, as much for Lieutenant Barnes’s reaction as the answer.

A smile spread over Lieutenant Barnes’s face, melting away the stress until only the handsome lines beneath were left. “I intend to build one,” he said, “but I thought you might like to assist with the plans.”

Clint’s confusion at that must have shown on his face. He didn’t think anyone outside his family knew, or cared, how much time he spent with a bow in his hand.

Lieutenant Barnes took in his expression then straightened his spine, as if standing to attention. “I suppose I must be honest with you. Today is not the first time we’ve met, although I doubt you will remember the previous occasion. I came here a few years ago, before I took up my commission, to the ball for your brother’s 21st birthday.”

That had been the last big social event that the family had hosted. Half the county had been invited, or at least the rich half of the county. Lord Barton had decided that Clint was too young to attend, although the household knew he meant ‘too defective’, and possibly most of the neighbours as well. Clint had dutifully gone to his room before the guests started arriving, then escaped over the balcony to watch from the garden. When he’d got bored of watching people get drunk, he’d gone to the range and challenged himself to hit bullseyes in the dark.

“You were the man who saw me,” he realised. He’d been shooting for nearly an hour when he’d turned around and realised a dark figure was watching him.

“Yes,” agreed Lieutenant Barnes. “I tried to talk to you, but you ran off.”

Clint hadn’t been able to see his mouth in the dark and had been horribly aware of how badly his father would react if he knew Clint wasn’t shut up in his room as if he didn’t exist, so he’d disappeared as quickly as he could, climbing back up the ivy to his room. He’d lain awake in bed for hours, listening to the vibrations of the music from below and wondering if he’d ever be able to attend a ball as an actual guest.

The answer had, unsurprisingly, turned out to be a firm no.

Lieutenant Barnes looked along the range to the target, then back at Clint so he could see his mouth before he spoke. “I was impressed by your aim then, but I’m even more impressed now.”

Clint couldn’t keep in a grin at the praise, because he was easily pleased by anyone who was complimentary about his shooting. He kept his eyes on Lieutenant Barnes’s face as he pulled an arrow from his quiver, set it to his bow string and shot. Lieutenant Barnes followed the flight with his eyes, then blinked when it hit the bullseye.

“Will you marry me?” he asked, abruptly. Apparently they had reached the end of the small talk phase of the conversation and were back to the question that loomed over them.

Clint weighed up his options and realised that anything was better than staying with his father. Whatever demons Lieutenant Barnes had, at least they would be different to the ones Clint had lived with for over two decades. If there was going to be an archery range either way, he might as well give this man a chance.

“Very well.” 

Lieutenant Barnes’s face lit up with a smile and Clint reflected that at least the view was going to be good.

****

The wedding was organised with the kind of indecent haste that usually signalled an unexpected pregnancy. Despite that being impossible, Clint still only spent a handful of hours with Barnes, all carefully chaperoned, before the wedding day dawned.

As his valet bustled around the room, setting out wedding clothes and hot water, Clint stared up at the ceiling and thought about just going over the balcony and running for it. Maybe a circus would take him in, if he showed them his shooting. He could probably turn it into some form of archery act, and he wouldn’t need to be able to hear to impress a crowd.

It wasn’t as if Barnes were a bad man, though. Or, at least, it wasn’t as if he’d shown himself to be a bad man so far.

“Mr Barton, sir?” asked the valet, hovering by the bed, and Clint gave in and sat up.

“Let’s get this done,” he said.

They were using the Barton family chapel for the ceremony but Barnes had provided the money to decorate it. Clint couldn’t help noticing that his half of the audience was both larger and better dressed than Clint’s half, which largely consisted of family with some of Barney’s friends to bulk it out a bit. There were still not enough guests between the two of them to fill the chapel, but then the rushed marriage between a reclusive second son and a damaged soldier probably wasn’t the event of the season.

Barnes was waiting for Clint at the altar in the dark green uniform of the 95th Rifles, the sleeve on his left side neatly pinned up. Clint walked down towards him with his father gripping his elbow tightly enough to bruise and Barnes’s smile was almost enough to make the pain fade away. Either he was an excellent actor or he just really wanted to be married, because otherwise there was no way anyone would look at Clint and smile like that.

Captain Rogers was standing as Barnes’s best man, wearing the red-coated uniform of his regiment, impeccably neat and with every button shining, looking every inch the great military hero. Clint supposed he was going to have to get to know him, unless Barnes intended to keep Clint shunted off to the side like Lord Barton always had.

 _As long as I have a range, I don’t care if I’m alone,_ he reminded himself as they reached the altar and the Baron put Clint’s hand in Barnes’s. Barnes was still smiling so Clint attempted to return it, but he had a feeling it looked more like a grimace.

Barnes’s eyes flickered to the vicar and Clint realised he’d missed whatever was being said. He took a deep breath and concentrated on the vicar’s lips because it seemed his hearing was particularly weak today and nothing that was coming through to Clint made a lot of sense.

The vicar wasn’t very good at speaking clearly so Clint spent most of the ceremony completely lost, just following whatever Barnes did and hoping for the best. 

And then they got to the vows.

Barnes tugged Clint around to face him, staring at him from so close that Clint got stuck on his eyes for a moment, before he blinked and refocused on Barnes’s lips in order to see them shape, “...and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

Barnes gave him a reassuring smile that Clint couldn’t quite manage to return because there was a buzzing in his ears and he couldn’t tell if it was a sign that his hearing was getting worse or that this whole thing was too much for him.

A moment passed, then Barnes squeezed his hand and tilted his head slightly towards the vicar. Clint turned to look at him, and was met by an expectant look. Oh god, he’d missed the prompt for his part. How did it start? He’d looked it over last night in case this happened and he didn’t hear it, but all the words he’d memorised had flown out of his head.

Barnes squeezed his hand again and he looked back, terrified that he was making a fool of himself and was about to ruin this whole thing. The only thing worse than ending this day married to a man he barely knew would be the Baron’s reaction if he ended it not married at all.

 _I, Clinton Francis Barton,_ Barnes mouthed at him, so clearly that Clint barely had to think to understand it. He repeated the words out loud, hoping that he was getting the volume right. Barnes gave him a reassuring smile, then fed him his next line. 

_Take thee, James Buchanan Barnes, to my wedded husband._

Clint forced those words out as well, and then it started to become easier. The ringing faded and he just focused on following Barnes’s lips, repeating the words without letting himself think about what they meant.

The rest of the ceremony passed in something of a haze, until Barnes was taking Clint’s hand and leading him outside to where a crowd of smiling people cheered and threw rice as if they had no idea how close to panic Clint was. The circus was seeming like a better option with every second that passed.

Except it was too late now. He’d made his vows and they were married, and if Clint tried to leave then Barnes would be able to involve the constabulary in getting him back. They were tied together now.

There was a flower-covered carriage waiting to take them to the wedding breakfast. Once inside, Clint couldn't stop himself from curling over his knees, desperately trying to take a deep breath. He'd just bound himself to a stranger for the rest of his life. What had he been thinking?

There was a brief touch to his shoulder and he looked up to see Barnes giving him a concerned look. “I promise it won't be that bad.”

As wedding vows went, it wasn't the least romantic, but it managed to make Clint feel better anyway. Barnes looked like he meant it, at least.

Clint straightened up. “Sorry,” he said. “This is still all a little strange to me.” At least hearing was easier now they were out of the echoing chapel.

“Me too,” admitted Barnes. “Let's just get through today, then tomorrow we travel to Brooklyn and we can take some time to settle.”

By all accounts Brooklyn, the Barnes estate, was beautiful. At the very least it wouldn't be gently crumbling around them, like Waverley Hall.

Clint took a deep breath and pinned on a smile. “And you'll let me build that range,” he reminded himself.

“It will be your home,” Barnes said. “You can build or change whatever you like.”

That seemed like a very broad statement to make. Clint wondered if he'd find out the caveats on it before or after he'd made Barnes angry, and what that would look like.

Barnes sighed. “I know this has been a bad start to a life together. It's all so rushed, and you haven't had nearly as much choice as I'd have liked, but there weren't any opportunities for me to get to know you better when you never appear in society. I thought it would be best for you if you left your father's house as soon as possible.”

Clint laughed. “Don't let's start out on a false foot,” he said. “I don't know what your reasons are for rushing into a marriage with a man you barely know, or for giving my father whatever he asked for as payment, but I can't imagine it was to improve my circumstances.”

“It was for exactly that reason,” said Barnes. Clint just stared at him, convinced he must have misheard that.

“Because you once saw me shooting?” he asked.

Barnes shook. “No, it’s-” he glanced out the carriage window and frowned. “We’re at Waverley Hall,” he said. “There’s no time now. Please, let’s get through the day, and then I will explain.”

Clint eyed him with suspicion but it was too late to change his mind about this now so it wasn’t as if he had a choice.

The carriage pulled up and Barnes climbed out, then held his one arm out to help Clint. Their family and friends were still on their way so there were only the servants waiting for them, lines of footmen wearing their very best uniforms, all shined up like a military parade. Clint didn’t bother putting on a false smile for them because they’d either been at the Hall long enough to know that there were no real smiles there, or they would find out soon enough.

Clint went to walk in as the carriage rattled away, but Barnes held him back until Clint turned to look at him.

“Please don’t look so grim,” said Barnes. “I promise, my intentions have only ever been good, and I would have explained earlier if there had been the chance.” He hesitated, and then added, “I asked for Miss Romanov’s approval, as the person I knew who knew you best.”

Clint stared at him. “Miss Romanov? Miss Natasha Romanov?” 

Natasha Romanov had grown up as the ward of Colonel Fury, whose estate was only separated from the Baron’s by a wood and a small stream. She and Clint had played together as children, before the Baron had decided that Clint shouldn’t be allowed to run free where the neighbours might see him and pass judgement.

Barnes nodded. “I have known her for years. After I told her about seeing you at your brother’s birthday, she told me as much about you as she could. She has your best interests at heart, and she approved my plan to marry you.”

“We haven’t spoken in years,” said Clint and then couldn’t keep from adding, bitterly, “she stopped being my friend as soon as it became difficult.”

There was another carriage drawing up, containing Clint’s parents and brother. Barnes glanced at it and frowned. “There’s no time,” he said. “Later, I’ll tell you later.”

He took Clint’s arm and they walked up the steps to the entrance hall, where more servants were waiting to hand out drinks.

“She’s here today,” added Barnes. “She might tell you herself.”

Clint felt his heart leap at the idea of reconnecting with the only friend he’d ever had, then thought about the reality of having a conversation in a room full of chattering people. He shook his head tiredly.

“I won’t be able to hear her. I won’t be able to hear much at all today. My ears don’t work well in a crowd.”

He felt the familiar surge of frustration and waited for Barnes to betray some sign of disgust at his uselessness, but instead Barnes just nodded.

“I’ll help you where I can,” he said. “If you want to get away and go somewhere quiet at any point, just squeeze my arm twice and I will make some excuse.”

Clint probably would want that, particularly if the guests were going to try and talk to him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be pandered to.

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted, as his family walked in and the Baron’s booming voice started to echo around the hall, berating Clint’s mother for some perceived fault. The sound washed over Clint’s ears like the tide, until it felt like he was in a seaside cave with nothing but waves booming against rock. He followed Barnes over to the receiving line as the rest of the guests started to arrive, pinned on a smile, and prepared to shake hands and pretend to understand what was being said to him.

****

As Barnes had said, Natasha Romanov was at the wedding. She shook Clint‘s hand in the receiving line but they didn’t have a chance for more, even if Clint could have understood it. Once everyone was inside with a drink in their hand, the Baron gave a short speech that could have been about anything as far as Clint knew, then they all got herded through to the wedding breakfast.

It was only when the herald announced him and Barnes as they stepped through the doors, loud enough to cut through the background noise to Clint's ears, that the full realisation that he was married sank in.

“The Honourable Lieutenant James Barnes, and The Honourable Mr Clinton Barnes.”

He wasn’t a Barton anymore. He was branded with Barnes’s name instead, just as Barnes was now eligible to share Clint’s courtesy title from being born the son of a Baron.

He had a feeling that was a large part of the reason that Barnes had agreed to this. His family had been little more than yeoman farmers until his grandfather made a fortune in wool and then branched out into the silk trade. He had been able to buy up enough land for a large estate and build an enormous house, but it would take a lot longer than two generations for polite society to forget the family’s origins.

Marrying the younger son of a Baron didn’t just grant Barnes a courtesy title, it brought the family line into the aristocracy. The Bartons could trace their lineage back to the first Baron of Waverley, appointed by Henry II, and now the Barnes’s were part of that noble ancestry.

That probably made this whole farce feel worthwhile to Barnes.

Barnes and Clint sat at the top table with Clint’s parents on one side and Captain Rogers and Barney on the other. Barnes’s parents were both dead and his sister was living in China with her husband and hadn’t been able to get home in time for the wedding. There had been very little time between the engagement and the marriage, after all.

Clint kept a vaguely pleasant look on his face as the meal was served but he didn’t think anyone was paying him any attention. The other tables all looked like they were talking and laughing and having a good time, while Clint and his mother sat in silence, the Baron hammered on about something Clint wouldn’t have cared about even if he could hear it, Barnes and Captain Rogers actually had a conversation, and Barney got drunk.

It was far from the worst meal Clint had ever had. At least the food was good, and the Baron was pleased right now, so he wasn’t going to turn angry and violent. The event was by far the largest social gathering Clint had been to and many of the faces in the room were people his father had kept him hidden away from, but Clint wasn’t in the mood to enjoy being part of it for once. Not when there was a heavy, cold weight sitting in the depths of his stomach.

There were speeches after the food, which Clint hoped no one was going to quiz him on later, and then a band struck up, adding music to the wash of blurred voices; it all abruptly became too much.

He glanced at Barnes, who was still talking to Rogers, and decided he wasn’t going to ask permission from his husband to go and get some air. He didn’t want to set a precedent and end up like his mother, after all. Instead, he just got up and slipped outside, walking away from the house until the rush of noise from inside had faded.

He took several deep breaths, taking in the fresh air and looking around the grounds of his home for the last time. He was going to miss this garden, even if there was nothing else here worth mourning.

A hand touched his shoulder and he flinched, then turned around to see Natasha.

“Miss Romanov,” he said, surprised.

“Hello, Clint,” she replied as if they were still children. She hesitated, then raised her hands and signed, “It’s good to see you.”

Clint stared at her. “You didn’t know sign language before.”

“No,” she agreed, still in sign language, using graceful, fluid motions. “I didn’t find a teacher until after I last saw you.”

That didn’t make any sense. His hearing hadn’t been damaged when they’d been friends. It was only after the Baron had beaten Clint badly enough that he’d spent a week in bed that it had become so unreliable, which had been around the same time that the Baron had decided to keep Clint confined to the Hall and its immediate grounds. It hadn’t been long after that before Natasha had given up on being friends with him.

“I wrote to you,” he said. “You didn’t reply.”

She scowled. “I did reply,” she signed with sharp, emphatic movements. “I wrote several times, before it became clear that you weren’t going to answer me. It was only later that I found out you’d never received my letters.”

“You wrote to me?” asked Clint, not sure he could believe it. He'd never received anything. 

She nodded. “I also called on you, but I was told you weren’t available.”

Rage flooded through Clint and he had to take several deep breaths, clenching his hands into fists. He’d thought he’d known everything the Baron had done to him: beaten him and deafened him, and confined him so that he never got a chance to experience society, but this was a new level of low.

“Barney received an invitation to your coming of age ball, and I didn’t,” he said, thinking back to the sharpest stab of betrayal he’d felt over Natasha’s abandonment of him.

“I sent you both one,” corrected Natasha. “And I am not the only person to have sent you invitations. I know Earl Stark has sent you invites to all his gatherings for the last few years, as have others of your neighbours. It wasn’t until last year, when I spoke to one of your old footmen, that I found out that the servants have standing orders to throw out any post addressed to you.”

“Oh,” said Clint, miserably. 

Somehow, even after everything, it still managed to hurt that the Baron hated him enough to do something so petty. What had he done to make his own father hate him so much?

Natasha reached out a hand to touch his arm. “I know this marriage is not what you might have wanted, but Lieutenant Barnes is a good man, and I am close to both him and Captain Rogers. We will be able to be friends again, Clint.”

Clint found a smile. “I’d like that,” he said, because the rest of this situation was a mess but Natasha had been the only friend he’d ever had, and he missed her.

Natasha’s head flicked around and Clint followed her gaze to see the Baron striding down the lawn towards them. He flinched, taking a step away from her, staring at his father’s lips to try and read what he was saying.

“...married, and I find you flirting with the neighbour’s ward! Can you not go one day without disgracing me?”

Natasha stepped forward, putting herself between Clint and the Baron, and said something that Clint only caught a few words of. “...disgrace...you.”

The Baron’s face went red with rage, which was usually a sign that someone was about to be in a lot of pain, but Natasha just turned her back on him and took Clint’s arm, towing him back to the wedding reception with more strength than Clint would have credited her with.

“He’s going to kill me,” croaked Clint, glancing back at the Baron.

Natasha snorted, waiting until he was looking at her before saying, very clearly. “When will he have the chance? You’re never going to be alone with him again.”

Clint gaped at her, because he hadn’t fully realised that yet. This was it, he was out of the Baron’s control. His father would never be able to hurt him again.

He may have achieved that by putting himself under Lieutenant Barnes’s control instead, but if Natasha thought he was a good man, how badly could that go?

Natasha took Clint back to his seat at the top table, exchanging a few sentences with Barnes and Rogers that made them both frown, then she nodded at Clint and signed, “I will visit you at Brooklyn as soon as I can.”

Clint nodded at her, still in something of a daze, especially now he was back amongst the distorted noise of the reception.

Barnes turned to him and took his hand in what seemed like an automatic gesture but which made Clint tense up all the more, because he couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him gently before today. Barnes was saying something that Clint couldn’t catch. He just shook his head, and Barnes gestured pointedly at the dance floor.

Clint shook his head again, more emphatically. Barney had taught him a few dances when they had been younger, but he hadn’t ever had a chance to use the knowledge and he wasn’t willing to start now, with so many people watching him and Barnes. He wasn’t even sure how well he’d be able to move to music he could barely hear. Barnes looked more disappointed than Clint thought was justified, but nodded. He squeezed Clint’s hand, then let go. Clint tried not to miss the touch, and then reminded himself that Barnes would be touching him a lot more than that once this reception was over and they’d retired to bed.

He’d been doing his best not to think about the wedding night but the closer it drew, the harder that was. He had agreed to this, he reminded himself. He’d known when he’d said yes to Barnes that he’d be expected to have sex with him, and he’d done it anyway, because no matter how bad it was, it couldn’t be worse than staying here.

Barnes gave Clint a weak smile, looking just about as lost as Clint felt, clearly not sure what to do with a husband who couldn’t hear a word he was saying.

“I’m fine,” said Clint. “You can keep talking to Captain Rogers.”

Barnes raised a pointed eyebrow, then nodded over at the dancefloor. Clint caught sight of Captain Rogers’s red jacket and realised he was dancing with a short, dark-haired man who he thought was probably Earl Stark. Of course, that was what people did at these events. That was why Barnes had asked Clint to dance.

“You can dance with someone else,” said Clint. “I don’t mind.”

Barnes shook his head immediately, saying something else that Clint managed to catch a few words of. “-dancing isn’t- -since the war.” He shrugged the shoulder of his missing arm.

If that was true, then why had he asked Clint? Out of some sense of politeness and obligation to his new husband, most likely.

“Good news, then,” said Clint. “I’m never really going to want to dance.” He gestured at his ears.

For some reason that made Barnes frown, but he nodded again, glancing away as a servant topped up their glasses. Clint picked his up, taking a sip just for something to do even though he generally avoided drinking alcohol. He had a feeling it was going to be a long evening.

****

It was, but somehow it still ended before Clint was ready. The guests left, one by one, coming over to offer their final congratulations as Clint felt his nerves about the coming night begin to rise. And then they were all gone and there was nothing to put it off any longer. He and Barnes climbed the stairs together, arm in arm, and Clint did his best to take careful, slow breaths, because it wasn’t as if Barnes weren’t attractive, and it seemed like he’d probably be gentle.

Except, just because he acted one way in front of people didn’t mean he wouldn’t be different behind closed doors.

Barnes nodded at Clint, heading into the dressing room where Clint could see his valet waiting. He continued to his bedroom -which was, for tonight only, to be _their_ bedroom- and let out a long breath that his own valet had the courtesy to ignore.

His valet helped him undress with all the impersonal care he’d always taken, pulling Clint’s nightgown on over his head and turning down the bed before he left. Clint didn’t climb in immediately. He just sat on the end of the bed, staring at the flickering candle light and trying not to think.

When Barnes came in, Clint couldn’t help jumping to his feet. Barnes stopped in the doorway, giving him a long, analytical look. He was in a nightshirt as well, and it made him look a lot softer and more vulnerable than his army uniform had. Clint still couldn’t bring himself to relax.

Barnes made an unhappy face, then stepped in to shut the door.

“I won’t touch you unless you want me to,” he said, slowly and clearly. “Please don’t look so scared. I don’t believe that marriage entitles a man to his spouse’s body whenever he pleases.”

Clint stared at him, because that was a reprieve he hadn’t expected. “The servants will tell my father if there’s no sign of consummation on the sheets,” he said, an automatic reaction from that part of his brain that was always tracking just what was going to make his father angry, and working to minimise it.

Barnes rolled his eyes. “What does that matter? We’ll be in Brooklyn by then, where you have your own room already set up which I won’t ever enter without an invitation.”

Clint felt like he was having some sort of weird extended hallucination. He hadn’t ever had a space where people waited to be given permission before going inside. 

“I don’t understand any of this,” he said, because it was late and he was tired, and his ears were still buzzing from all the noise they’d been assaulted with today, and he had a headache forming from the concentration of lipreading so much, and now the thing he’d been dreading was apparently not ever going to be an issue.

“I know,” said Barnes. He walked closer, stopping within arms reach. “I wish I had had a chance to explain to you before today, but your father is a complete bastard.”

Clint blinked at the raw honesty of that and found a smile. “He really is,” he agreed.

A strange, dazed look took over Barnes’s face. “Your smile is beautiful.”

Clint had no idea what to do with that. It seemed like this conversation just kept getting stranger.

Barnes took a deep breath, pulling his gaze away and shaking his head before the look on his face got serious. “Listen,” he said, then winced. “Uh, I mean-”

Clint waved that away with a hand. “I can listen,” he said. “This room is pretty quiet, and there’s enough light to catch what I miss from your lips.” And no matter how bad his headache might get from continuing to concentrate, he wanted to hear this now, before he spent any more time married to a man without knowing why.

“Very well,” said Barnes. “Then, please. Let me explain to you.” He gestured back at the end of the bed and Clint sat down again. Barnes turned to face him, putting his one hand behind his back as if standing at parade rest. “Several years ago, I left a party that had become too warm and noisy to take a quiet stroll in the grounds, and found the most attractive man I’ve ever seen shooting a bow and arrow.”

Clint felt himself flush, because there was no way he was the most attractive man that anyone had ever seen, especially not a man like Lieutenant Barnes.

“Just listen,” said Barnes, catching his look. “I promise, every word of this is true. You were beautiful then, and you are now.”

Clint couldn’t believe that at all, but he forced himself not to duck his head. There were enough candles to light Barnes’s lips but it was taking all his concentration to match the movements up with the words that his ears picked up through the buzz of over-use.

“I watched you for some time,” continued Barnes, then added something else Clint missed. He frowned and forced himself to focus tighter, ignoring the mounting pressure in his head. 

“...turned and saw me, and I tried to speak to you, but you ran instead. I tried to find you, but…” Clint missed the next part, then picked up again at, “...and when I went back to the ball and asked Steve if he knew who you might be, he had no idea. It was only when Miss Romanov... ...the other son of the Lord Barton, the one nobody ever saw.” 

Clint had no idea how to react to this story. How had he made such an impression on someone like Barnes?

“I tried to find out everything I could about you,” Barnes continued. “I went to every ball in the area, in the hope... ...be there, I attempted to make friends with your brother before it became clear... ...and that he had no interest in talking about you. This was before Spain,” he added. “I was young and arrogant, and thought all I would… ...talk to you, and I’d be able to persuade you to marry me.”

“Marry?” repeated Clint, not sure he could have got that right. “A man you had seen once?”

Barnes gave a self-conscious shrug. “I was something of a hopeless romantic,” he said. “At any rate, I only managed to catch sight of you once more, for all my trying. I was out riding with… ...saw your carriage coming from the chapel after Sunday service. You were looking out at the landscape, clearly paying no attention to the conversation around you, and Stark said there were rumours that you were deaf, which... ... friends with Miss Romanov when you were children, so I questioned her about you. I resolved to learn sign language so that if I ever… ...talk to you, I could be sure you’d understand when I told you how beautiful you were, and that I wanted to get to know you more than...”

Beautiful? Seriously? There was no way that word could have been anything else, but Clint couldn’t bring himself to believe it, even if Barnes had said it several times. There was nothing beautiful about him.

Barnes took a deep breath and made an awkward gesture. His next few sentences were hurried, which made them harder for Clint to understand. “My regiment was sent to Portugal before... ...and the war... ...next few years for me. ...captured, and-” He waved the stump of his missing arm with a vague gesture that made it obvious what he was alluding to. “That whole year, all I could think about was... ...make it home, so that I could finally meet you. I kept your face in my mind through... ...Steve rescued me and... ...was worried that I would die of my wounds before we made it to safety, I told him that, no matter what else happened, I wasn’t going to die before I had the chance to propose to you.”

Clint felt like his eyes were going to fall out of his face from staring. “Me?” he said. “Are you sure?” He had to be getting parts of this wrong, because Barnes was making this sound like they were long-lost lovers from a fairytale, and Clint was the furthest thing from a knight’s reward that he could imagine.

Barnes nodded. “Very sure,” he said, firmly enough that the words were easy to understand. “I came home and recovered. While Steve and I had been gone, Miss Romanov… ….investigating you. She spoke to servants who had left the Baron’s service, and even got your brother drunk... ...information from him. The picture she created was- well. Bleak.”

Clint managed a weak smile at that, because it seemed like a fairly accurate descriptor for his life.

“I realised… ...never meet you in a normal way, and Miss Romanov was very clear that leaving you here was... ...so we all came up with this plan. And I hate it, because as much as I wanted -want- to marry you, I wanted it to be your choice.” Barnes gave a helpless shrug. “Tomorrow we’ll go to Brooklyn,” he said, “where you can live however you wish, and if you decide you don’t want me around, I’ll go to the London townhouse, but please, give me a chance first. Get to know me before you decide that.”

Clint rubbed at his temples because his headache now felt like it was going to burst out of his skull. Barnes had really seen him shooting once and decided that was it for him? Fuck. There was no way he was going to be anything other than disappointed once he got to know the real Clint.

A glass of water appeared in front of his face and he took it gratefully. Barnes said something but Clint missed it and had to look up at him with an apologetic shrug.

“You’re tired,” said Barnes, and Clint could barely concentrate on his lips. “It’s been a long day. We can talk about this once we’ve made it to Brooklyn.”

Clint nodded, taking a sip of water. At least that gave him some time to come to terms with apparently being the target of some kind of rescue mission.

Barnes blew the candles out as Clint settled into bed. He couldn't help tensing up when Barnes joined him but he merely lay down with some distance between them and appeared to fall asleep almost immediately. 

Clint lay awake, trying to imagine exactly what kind of life he would be living as a married man, but it had been a long, exhausting day, filled with too many sounds that he had to concentrate on. As he fell asleep, his last thought was that it seemed that being Clint Barnes would at least be an improvement over being Clint Barton.


	2. Chapter 2

Barnes woke Clint very early the next morning, waiting until his eyes had blinked open enough to focus before saying, very clearly, “If we leave early, your father will still be in bed.”

Clint could definitely see the merits of that. He got out of bed as Barnes disappeared into the dressing room. Clint's valet came in with hot water and Clint focused on getting washed and dressed as quickly as possible, while his valet packed up the last of his belongings and took them down to the carriage. 

“Are my bows safely secured?” he asked, because they were the only things he really cared about. 

“Yes, sir, I checked them myself,” said the valet, barely able to hide his exasperation because perhaps that wasn't the first time Clint had asked. Or even the fifth.

Barnes knocked before he came back into the room, which seemed like an excessive courtesy to Clint.

“Are you ready?” he asked. 

Clint took one last look around the room he had grown up in. “Yes.”

Barnes held his arm out to him and Clint took it, allowing himself to be escorted downstairs. 

The house was still and quiet but the aura of tension that always hung over it was still palpable, as if even the building was bracing itself against when the Baron woke up.

“I had meant to ask,” said Barnes as they descended into the front hall. “Are you attached to your valet? I have hired a new man for you, but if you would prefer to keep your current one…”

Clint shook his head. “He's only been with me a few months.” Servants never lasted long at Waverley Hall.

“Very well,” said Barnes. “I hope you will approve of my choice.”

Clint just shrugged, because one valet was much like another. They were impersonal, often treated him like a small child after the first few times Clint missed what they were saying, and never stayed longer than six months. 

As they descended the stairs, Clint's mother came out of the small morning room, where she liked to spend the first few hours of her day. She was always up very early, taking advantage of the time before Lord Barton was awake. 

“Clint,” she said, sounding surprised, then she glanced up towards where the Baron's bedroom was, as if afraid he would hear her.

“Mother,” said Clint. “We thought we'd get an early start.”

She nodded. “That seems sensible.” She hesitated, and then looked at Barnes. “Lieutenant Barnes, I wonder if I might have a moment with my son.”

“Of course,” said Barnes. “I'll wait in the carriage.” He gave her a graceful bow before he left. “Thank you so much for your hospitality, Lady Barton. I hope to see you at Brooklyn some day so that I can repay it.”

“Of course,” she said, although Clint knew she hadn't spent a night away from the Hall in years, not since she and the Baron stopped going to the London townhouse for the season.

Once Barnes had left, she stepped closer to Clint and took his hands, which surprised Clint. He couldn't remember the last time she’d touched him.

“Clint,” she said, then took a deep breath. “My son,” she added, and suddenly there was more emotion in her voice than Clint knew what to do with. “I just wanted to say that this was never what I wanted for you. Any of it. When you were a baby you were always so happy, you know. Barney always seemed to be crying when they brought him to see me, but you always smiled. Such beautiful blue eyes.”

It felt like Clint's throat was swelling up. “Mother,” he said, squeezing her hands gently.

She shook her head, carrying on. “And then your father…” She glanced at his ears. “I wasn't able to protect you. I didn't even know how to try. I'm so sorry, Clint.”

“It's fine,” he said, because he'd never once blamed her for it. She was probably the Baron's biggest victim, after all, and unlike him she’d never be able to escape, not unless the Baron drank himself into the grave. “I'm getting away,” he reminded her.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Lieutenant Barnes seems like a good man, but it's such early days. Clint, I want you to know how much I hope your marriage is different to mine.”

Clint thought about how Barnes had said he wouldn’t touch him without permission, how he'd looked at him in the carriage yesterday as he promised that this marriage wasn't going to be that bad, and his strange story last night of having looked for Clint for years.

“I think it will be,” he said, reassuring himself as much as his mother. He was about to leave everything he knew to go and live with a near-stranger but somehow, he couldn't imagine it being anywhere near as bad as staying here. “He's going to build me a range.”

She smiled, and it looked unnatural on her care-worn face. “Then I know you'll be happy.” She squeezed his hands again, then let go and stepped back. “I wish you a happy life.”

“Mother,” said Clint, feeling a little helpless and very guilty to be leaving her behind. “You know you’ll always be welcome in Brooklyn. You should definitely come and stay.”

“Of course,” she said, then glanced upwards towards the bedrooms again. “If your father allows it.”

Clint opened his mouth to tell her that she should come anyway, but he knew that wasn’t fair to her when they both knew it wasn’t how life worked. Instead, he took his mother’s hand and kissed it, then bade her farewell and went out to the carriage.

Barnes was already inside it but he had his head out the window to watch for Clint. He said something but all Clint’s ears could hear was the wind in the trees, so he just gave an awkward nod and hurried down the steps. He could see his bow cases strapped on with the other luggage and he couldn’t stop himself from pausing to check they were securely in place, even if it meant he kept Barnes waiting. Better to find out now how he reacted to impatience. Clint would heal from a hit or two but he wasn’t risking any damage to his bows.

When he finally did step up into the carriage though, Barnes was smiling rather than frowning.

“Archery really does have your heart,” he said as Clint settled himself in the seat opposite him. The footman shut the door and Clint missed the next thing Barnes said so he just shrugged.

“It just always made sense to me.”

Barnes’s smile only widened at that. He really was handsome; at least Clint had married someone he wouldn’t mind looking at for the next few decades. “I will make sure we get started on the range as soon as possible,” he promised.

“Thank you,” said Clint, then his eyes got caught on the sight of Waverley Hall as they turned around the courtyard and started down the drive. He couldn’t stop himself from leaning out of the window to watch it disappear behind the trees.

He was finally free. His father had no more power over him. A weight lifted from his shoulders and it was like he could breathe for the first time in years. He hadn’t realised just how much dread had been pressing down on him, day after day after day, trapped in that house with the knowledge that it was only a matter of time before he got hurt again.

“You never have to come back here,” said Barnes, and Clint turned to look at him. There was more understanding in his face than Clint knew what to do with.

“What do you know about it?” he asked, because he was sick of this feeling of shifting foundations that he got every time Barnes was nice to him. How was he meant to get a sense of how to act if he didn’t know where Barnes’s limits were?

Barnes settled back into the corner of the carriage. “I was imprisoned for a year, and tortured,” he said. “And I felt the same relief I just saw on your face when I finally left that place.”

Clint shook his head, because there was no way Barnes was comparing being held captive by bandits with Clint’s childhood home.

Barnes gave him a twisted smile but didn’t say anything else, apparently content to sit in silence as the carriage took them to the end of the drive, then out onto the road through the village.

It was still early and the carriage seats were padded well enough for Clint to doze, drifting in and out of actual sleep depending on the smoothness of the roads they were travelling. Every time he blinked his eyes open, Barnes was in the same position, relaxed back as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and his eyes were resting on Clint’s face despite the book in his hands.

After it had been two or three hours, they paused at a roadside inn to stretch their legs and take some refreshment.

“How much farther is Brooklyn?” asked Clint, wondering if he should have found out which part of the country he’d be spending the rest of his life in before now.

“Another few hours,” said Barnes. “If the roads are not too bad, we should be there before 4.”

Clint nodded as if he had any concept of travelling that far.

When he and Barney had been very young, they’d gone with their parents to London for the winter season. He could remember being bundled up in layers and taken out to walk in beautifully manicured parks, and having a palace pointed out to him as where the king lived.

Even before Clint's hearing was damaged, the Baron had decided that he and Barney were too noisy to have around so they were left behind on future trips, and then the money situation grew too tight for anyone to go, and the townhouse was rented out instead. Clint hadn’t left Waverley Hall and its grounds again, other than for an hour or two to go to church, not until now.

He looked around at the inn and tried not to feel overwhelmed at just how little he knew about his surroundings. Once they were at Brooklyn, he would learn the grounds and surroundings as well as he’d known Waverley Hall. Better, if Barnes wasn’t going to keep Clint confined to the estate. He could go along on visits to the neighbours and, perhaps, make friends.

No, that was too far for his imagination. He could imagine people making allowances for the strange husband of the dashing Lieutenant Barnes, but surely no one would put the effort in to becoming friends with a man who couldn’t hear them speak in a crowded room?

Natasha had said she would and Clint wanted to believe her, but it was hard to imagine her deciding the benefits of being his friend would outweigh the many difficulties once she’d experienced them.

“Do you play cards?” asked Barnes, once they were back in the carriage and heading on their way again.

“Sometimes, with Barney,” said Clint.

Barnes smiled and pulled a pack out of his pocket. “That would make the journey go quicker,” he said, and Clint nodded his agreement.

He didn’t stop to think that maybe he shouldn’t play like he did with Barney until it was too late, and Barnes was giving him suspicious frowns over the top of his hand.

“Are you cheating?”

“Uh,” said Clint, then shrugged and flicked the three aces out of his sleeve. “Maybe? Sorry, that’s just how Barney and I always play.”

Barnes snorted, setting his cards on the seat so he could gather them together one-handed. “You cheat your brother?”

Clint handed over his cards so that Barnes could shuffle them into the pack as well. “We both cheat,” he said. “Whoever is better at it is the winner.”

“That explains a lot about Mr Barton’s winning streaks at card parties,” said Barnes. He rested the pack on the coach seat to mix them together, but he made it look easy and natural rather than awkward so Clint didn’t offer to shuffle for him. “Do you think we could have a hand where you stick to the rules?”

“Of course,” said Clint.

“And maybe you can teach me how to cheat some time,” added Barnes. He gave Clint a smirk. “It would be good to take Stark’s money from him, rather than the other way around.”

Clint hadn’t expected that. He returned Barnes’s grin, thinking that this marriage was turning out to be nothing but surprises.

They played several more hands, during which Barnes proved he was the better player when the rules were involved. Clint didn’t mind, though. Anything that kept Barnes in a good mood was only going to stave off the moment when Clint found out what he was like when he was angry.

A few more hours passed, then Barnes ducked his head to look out of the window. “This is the start of my estate,” he said, then amended himself. “Our estate.”

Clint didn’t fool himself for a minute that he owned anything other than his bows, but he did turn to watch his new home pass by the window.

Brooklyn was set in a valley, surrounded by hills. They passed through the village, where Barnes pointed out the church and the vicar’s residence.

“He comes over to visit on occasion, more often if Steve is staying with me,” he said. “Reverend Wilson is a friend, I suppose. He can be a bit righteous, but he knows more about the local gossip than anyone else I speak to.”

The driveway to the house was another mile of road after that, travelling through woods that Clint hoped he’d be able to explore. There was a tall metal gate where they stopped while the gatekeeper darted out of his cottage to open it. He waved at Barnes as they passed through, and Clint could see a handful of children’s faces peeking through the windows at him. He supposed there was a great curiosity about the master’s new husband, and he resigned himself to being stared at for as long as it took for them all to realise how dull he was.

“Only another ten minutes now,” said Barnes. “The best view of the house is from the left, I’ll let you know when we’re about to come in sight of it.”

He sounded oddly nervous and Clint gave him a careful look, trying to work out what on earth he could be worried about.

Barnes caught his look and gave a diffident shrug. “I hope you will like it,” he added. “It’s not got the history that Waverley Hall does.”

Clint snorted. “If you mean it doesn’t have the crumbling structure and cold draughts, then I am more than glad to hear it.”

Barnes smiled back but he didn’t stop looking nervous until they came around a corner, out of the woods, and the house was laid out before them.

It was a lovely square building, built in a far more modern style than Waverley Hall, glittering with windows, and with a wide porch lined with stone pillars.

Clint was far more distracted by the view of the immediate grounds though. Immediately to their left was a small, clear lake that was separated from the house by a wide green lawn that he could see descending to the woods in distance. As the carriage came around the lake, he could see a rose garden to the right of the house, then hedges beyond that seemed to surround an orchard.

There would be plenty of space for him to have his range.

Someone must have dashed over from the gatehouse to announce their arrival because the servants were all waiting for them, lined up on either side of the entrance. As the carriage rolled to a stop, a footman darted over to open the door and Barnes climbed down, then reached back to take Clint’s hand and help him down.

“This is my new husband, The Honourable Mr Clinton Barnes,” he announced to them all. “Please make him feel very welcome.”

They all bowed or curtsied, and Clint managed a smile for them as the butler stepped forward.

“We’re very glad to have you here, Mr Barnes,” he said, and it took a moment for Clint to remember that that was him now.

“This is Wilkins,” said Barnes. “He’s been butler here since I was a boy.” He gestured at the housekeeper. “And this is his wife, Mrs Wilkins.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Clint, trying to remember how many butlers Waverley Hall had gone through since he was a boy. It must have been more than ten.

“The rest of the servants you can meet another time,” said Barnes, guiding Clint forward with a hand on his back, “but I wanted you to meet your new valet now. This is Coulson.”

Coulson was a small man, neat and constrained as he gave Clint a short bow. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Barnes,” he said, raising his hands and signing along to his words.

Clint stared. “You know sign language?”

“Yes, sir,” said Coulson, still signing. “My sister was deaf. Lieutenant Barnes has asked me to teach some of the other servants, but I’m afraid we’ve only had time for a few lessons.”

Clint turned on Barnes. “You did what?”

“I thought it would be easier for you,” said Barnes, and Clint took a very deep breath, then bit his tongue, because this wasn’t the time, not with the entire household looking on.

He looked back at Coulson. “You don’t need to worry about that. It won’t be necessary,” he said.

“Very well,” said Coulson, and he didn’t sign it, which was a relief. The servants would probably end up judging Clint as deficient soon enough without a glaringly obvious difference like being signed to all the time as well. “I’ll unpack your luggage now, sir. Are there any special instructions?”

“Be careful with the bows,” said Clint. “In fact, don’t unpack those at all, just leave them for me.”

“Of course, sir,” said Coulson with another bow, and he headed over to the carriage, where the footmen were already unloading their luggage.

Clint looked over at Barnes to see that he was frowning. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I don’t need to be pandered to,” said Clint, trying to keep his anger out of his voice as the servants moved around them, either heading back to their jobs or going to help with the unloading. “I’ve had difficulties with my ears since I was a boy, I can cope without needing special treatment.”

Barnes’s frown deepened. “It’s not pandering to make sure that you can communicate easily with those around you.”

Clint shook his head, gritting his teeth. “I’m not defective,” he snapped.

“No,” said Barnes, immediately. “No, of course not. That wasn’t- please don’t think I meant it like that. It was-” He took a deep breath, looking around at the servants. “Come inside, let me show you the house.”

Clint nodded and followed him inside because it wasn’t a good idea to have this argument in front of the servants. No doubt they’d find enough to gossip about over the next few days but there was no need to actively add fuel to the fire.

Barnes led Clint through the front hall with its imposing staircase to a drawing room with wide windows looking out over the lawn to the lake. On the wall was a large portrait of Barnes as a young boy, standing next to his little sister in front of their parents. His father’s hand was on his shoulder but it didn’t look like he was squeezing tightly enough to hurt, like Lord Barton had done in the similar portrait that had been done of the Barton family when Clint was a boy.

Barnes waited until the door was shut to start talking. Clint braced himself for being told off for ungratefulness, or for making a scene in front of the servants, or whatever else Barnes was going to chastise him for. He clenched his hands into fists because he was sick of being treated like a child and he had a point he wanted to make before Barnes got too settled into patronising him just because his hearing was faulty. 

“When I first came back from Spain, I needed a lot of help,” said Barnes, and that wasn’t even close to where Clint had thought this was going to go. “It took me a long time to relearn how to do things with one arm. Some things I’ll never be able to do. I had changes made throughout the whole house to make things easier for me. Things like the doors all opening both ways - you’ll no doubt notice them, once you’ve been here a day or two. That wasn’t pandering, that was me working out how to make my life easier and to adjust to my new way of doing things.”

Clint let out a long breath, his anger derailed. “I don’t need to adjust,” he said. “I’ve been like this a long time. I’m used to it.”

“Yes, I know,” agreed Barnes. “I just want you to feel at home. I want things to be easy for you. I don’t want you to be unable to communicate with your valet if you’re having a bad day, or to miss a message from a servant who isn’t speaking clearly.” He let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted to learn sign for you,” he said. “I wanted to be able to talk to you like that, so it was easier for you, but…” He waved his one hand awkwardly. “Coulson started showing me, but there were so many signs we’d have to amend for me that it didn’t make sense to work those changes out with him, when you’re the one I wanted to be able to understand me.”

Clint shook his head. “That’s very kind, but you don’t need to bother. I can manage.”

“I don’t want you to just manage,” said Barnes, and for the first time he sounded angry. Clint forced his feet to stand his ground. “I want you to _thrive_. Your father kept you in the shadows, but you deserve to be at the centre of things. I don’t want you to feel that you’re anything other than an essential part of this household, and part of that is making sure everyone can talk to you. Or that you have a valet who can translate for you when too many people are talking, or there’s music in the background, or whatever else makes things difficult.”

Apparently Barnes wasn’t angry at Clint, but at his father. Clint had no idea what to do with that, or with the idea of having a servant specifically to help him in noisy situations. That sounded a lot like Barnes was intending to make sure he was part of social gatherings. He wondered how long that would last once Barnes really got to know him.

“I don’t want to be the freak who needs help,” he said instead.

“Me neither,” said Barnes. “We’re not freaks, but we do need help with some things. Let me help you.”

Clint could feel himself giving in. “Very well,” he said, “but if I ask you to back off-”

“I’ll do it immediately,” said Barnes, smiling as if Clint’s agreement were all he needed to be happy. “Come on, let me give you a tour of the house.”

Clint nodded and followed him out of the room, straightening his shoulders. Maybe he should stop waiting for the other shoe to drop and just trust that Barnes meant everything he said. Maybe this new start was everything it looked like it might be.

He just wasn't sure he could bring himself to believe that, not quite yet.

****

Brooklyn was large enough that the tour only really served to jumble Clint’s mind up with rooms and corridors and stairs. It was going to take him several days to properly learn his way around.

Barnes showed him what was behind every door, even those just leading to a cupboard or a servants’ area, explaining how they all were typically used and pointing out any particular points of interest, always making sure to be facing Clint when he spoke so that he could see his lips. Clint’s hearing seemed to be having one of its good days, but he appreciated the effort.

Barnes ended the tour at Clint’s new bedroom. He pushed open the door, then gestured Clint inside but didn’t follow. It was a good-sized room, with windows that looked out across the lake, but the first thing Clint really noticed was that the curtains and the bedclothes were a deep purple.

Coulson was unpacking some of Clint’s clothes but as Clint came in he gave a deep bow and then disappeared through a door, leaving the two of them alone.

“I hope you like it,” said Barnes and he sounded as nervous as he had the whole way around the house, as if Clint might decide he didn’t like it and just leave.

As if Clint had anywhere else to go to, or a chance of escaping even if he did. He’d made his vows and signed his name to the marriage certificate, he was chained to Barnes now.

“Natasha said you used to like purple, and I noticed your bowcases were this colour so I thought you must still like it,” added Barnes as Clint ran a hand over the bed covers, feeling the smoothness of the fabric.

“Is this silk?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Barnes, still hovering in the doorway. “We trade in it, you know.”

Clint nodded, because he did know that the Barnes family business dealt in silks and other fabrics. He wondered how much involvement Barnes had in it. He wondered if he’d be expected to get involved and hoped not. He didn’t know the first thing about running a business, or trade, or anything else that might count as actual work.

“If you don’t like the colour, I can get them changed,” said Barnes, and Clint looked back and found a smile for him.

“No, it’s lovely. Natasha was right, it’s my favourite.”

Barnes’s relieved smile lit up his face and Clint once again found himself confronted with just how handsome he was.

He made himself look away before Barnes noticed him looking, taking in the rest of the room. His bow cases were all lying on the bed and his fingers itched to open them up and make sure everything was in order, but he knew how likely that was to turn into a full inspection of all his equipment, and he didn’t have time for that right now.

There were two doors other than the one Barnes was still standing in. One was the one Coulson had gone through, which had looked like a dressing room. Clint looked at the other one, which had a key in the lock.

“What’s through there?”

“My room,” said Barnes, and Clint twitched. Of course, these were a married couple’s rooms, complete with a door between for easy access.

“It’s locked, and the only key is that one,” added Barnes. “I told you, I won’t ever come inside your room without permission. You’re the only one able to open that door.”

Clint turned back to him, realising that his awkward hover in the doorway was him keeping his word and not coming inside. Clint almost opened his mouth to invite him in because it seemed like the polite thing to do, but he held his tongue at the last minute. If he were going to be allowed to decide when he wanted Barnes in his room, then he would make that choice in his own time.

Or find out that all of Barnes’s careful consideration was a lie. If that was going to be the case, he would like to have proof of it sooner rather than later, so that he could prepare himself.

“Thank you,” he said instead, and won himself another of Barnes’s smiles.

“You are very welcome,” he said, and shifted back from the doorway. “I will leave you to settle in and recover from the journey. I’ve asked for tea to be served in the small drawing room in half an hour, if you care to join me.”

“Of course,” said Clint, desperately trying to remember which of the many rooms they'd seen had been the small drawing room.

Barnes’s smile turned warmer. “Coulson will be able to give you directions. Or I can come back and escort you.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine,” he said, in blatant disregard of the truth. “Small drawing room, half an hour. Easy.”

“I look forward to it, then,” said Barnes, and he gave Clint one more smile before he left, looking far happier than Clint really understood. God, even if Barnes was being completely honest and upfront about everything, he was going to be bitterly disappointed once he got to know Clint properly.

Hopefully that disappointment wouldn’t find an outlet in violence.

“Sir,” said a voice, and Clint turned to see Coulson in the dressing room doorway. “I’ve arranged for warm water, if you would like to wash some of the road dust off.”

His hands had twitched upwards at the beginning of the sentence as if about to sign, but he restrained them and held them at his sides instead.

“Thank you,” said Clint, and then added it in sign, because he probably had been too hasty earlier. Having a valet who could sign would be very useful on the days when his ears were too busy buzzing to let any other noise in, especially if he were teaching the other servants as well. And if his sister were deaf, maybe he wouldn't assume that Clint's faulty ears were a sign of a faulty brain, and patronise him like many of the servants at Waverley Hall had. Of course, many of them were simply following the Baron's example, and Barnes didn't seem to be doing the same. 

Coulson gave him a smile, and stepped back. “This way then, sir,” he said, and he signed along with his words.

Clint returned his smile and followed him into the dressing room.

****

Clint found the small drawing room with only a few wrong turns. Barnes was already there, holding a teacup and looking out of the window at the garden. The sun was still bright but it was starting to fall behind the hills and Clint could see long shadows forming.

“Clint,” Barnes greeted him, turning towards him with a smile. “You made it.”

Clint ignored the strange thrill of hearing his first name from the mouth of someone who wasn’t his mother or Barney, and rolled his eyes. “I’m not completely useless.”

“You’re not useless at all,” said Barnes, as a footman poured Clint a cup of tea and then unobtrusively disappeared, leaving the two of them alone. “Do you mind if I call you Clint?” he added. “I’m sorry, I should have asked first.”

Clint shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said. “I think it will take me a while to get used to Mr Barnes, anyway.” There was a display of tiny cakes in the middle of the table and he took one, because he was never going to turn down cake.

Barnes nodded. “Then you should call me Bucky.”

Clint blinked at him. “Bucky?” he repeated. “Not James?”

Barnes snorted, coming over to set his teacup down so that he could take one of the cakes as well. “No, somehow I ended up with a ridiculous nickname that got spread around and now no one calls me James.”

Clint looked at him carefully, taking in the lines of his face. “Bucky suits you better,” he said, because James was far too normal a name for someone as strange as Bucky.

Bucky gave him a wry smile. “I can’t decide if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

Clint just grinned back and waggled his eyebrows.

There was a knock on the door and Clint saw a twitch of irritation cross Bucky’s face, and immediately braced himself.

Bucky didn’t start to rant and rave at being interrupted like the Baron would have though, he just took a breath and called out, “Come in!”

A servant in the worn clothes of a gardener came in, cap clasped in his hands, but his posture was open and relaxed. Nothing like the terrified cower that Lord Barton always inspired. “You asked to see me, sir.”

“Yes, Jones,” said Bucky. “This is my new husband. We’re going to take him on a tour of the grounds and find a good place for a range.”

The way he said ‘husband’ had a weirdly warm tone to it that Clint felt inadequate to.

“Gun range?” asked Jones, with a grin.

Bucky rolled his eyes at him rather than reprimanding him for his impertinence. “Archery.”

Jones made a disappointed face. “We could make it both,” he said. He glanced at Clint. “Has the Lieutenant told you that he was the best shot in the Rifles yet?”

“Jones,” said Bucky, and there was a note of rebuke in his voice at that. “I apologise,” he said to Clint. “Jones was one of the men in my unit in the Army, which he seems to think means he can get away with all kinds of familiarity.”

Clint shrugged, setting his teacup aside and standing up, because if they were going to be looking at places for a range, he wanted to do it as soon as possible. “It’s fine,” he said. He liked the idea of things being a little less formal and oppressive than everything at Waverley Hall had been. “It’s good to meet you, Jones.”

“You too, Mr Barnes,” said Jones, and he gave a head bob. “I hope you like it here.”

“Me too,” said Clint, and it was actually starting to feel like a distinct possibility.

****

The grounds were large enough for there to be several places that a range could fit in. Clint tried to work out where it would be least intrusive, hidden behind a hedge or the stables, but Bucky kept leading them back to the lawn, gesturing at the area on the south side of the house.

"You'd have far more space here," he said. "And there's no cover, or structures to cause shadows, so the light will last later into the evening."

"A range doesn't have to take up much space," said Clint, "and it would be very visible here from most of the grounds, including the drive."

"And the house," added Jones. "Isn't that your study window, sir?" he asked, pointing up at a first storey window that overlooked the area they were discussing. 

Bucky gave him a dark look, then cleared his throat. "I don't care if people can see it unless you do," he said to Clint. "My grounds are to be used, not looked at. I get the impression you like to shoot as often as possible, in which case it makes sense that we place it close to the house, and where you will get the most light."

Clint looked around again. If he really did have the free rein Bucky suggested, this was where he would choose to set a range up. He took a deep breath and nodded. "Very well, here then."

Bucky grinned at him as if Clint were the one doing him a favour. "Excellent. Jones, this is the priority. Get Dernier to help you."

Jones nodded, looking around at the space, then back at Clint. "If I'm being honest, sir, I've never built an archery range before. How many targets do you want?"

"Just one is fine," said Clint. 

Bucky let out a long sigh. "We're not aiming for 'fine'," he said. "Do the rest of the grounds and house look like my family settles for 'fine'? If we are putting in a range, I would like it to be the best possible range, the envy of my neighbours. Please give Jones full instructions on how to achieve that."

Clint hadn’t considered that. He looked around the rest of Brooklyn and thought about the shining newness of the curtains and bed covers in his room. Bucky was used to everything being the best and the most up-to-date. It made sense that he’d want anything he allowed Clint to build in his garden to be the same.

He looked back at Jones. “If I draw up some plans, will you be able to build from them?”

“Of course, sir,” said Jones, and he was smiling a lot wider than Clint would have expected for a servant who was being given a big job to do. “Make them as grand as you like, me and Dernier like a challenge.” His eyes darted sideways to Bucky. “Just like the Lieutenant does.”

Bucky rolled his eyes but didn’t comment on the disrespect of that comment. “The library has paper and the other materials you’ll need,” he said to Clint. “Let me show you.”

Clint nodded at Jones. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said, because he wanted to make a good first impression, if possible. It was clear that the servants here were a lot closer to Bucky than Clint would have ever thought a master could be with those he employed. If Clint wanted to keep Bucky’s good will, it seemed likely he would need to keep on the right side of them as well.

“You’re welcome, sir,” said Jones and, after a hesitation, clumsily signed the same thing.

Clint tried not to let his reaction to that show on his face. Bucky had said Coulson was teaching the other servants sign language but he hadn’t really realised that meant that it would be part of these sorts of everyday interactions.

As he followed Bucky back towards the house, he thought back over the walk around the grounds and realised that Jones had never once spoken without standing so that Clint had a clear view of his mouth.

Clint’s own family had never managed to show that much consideration. That the servants here did was clearly something Bucky had arranged. Clint took a deep breath and wondered how he was meant to repay this kind of thing. 

All Bucky had asked him for so far was for Clint to give him a chance for them to get to know each other. It didn’t seem like much, but if that was what he wanted, Clint would give him every opportunity he could to get to know him, even if it was only going to end with Bucky’s disappointment.

The library was on the first floor, with walls lined with dark wood bookshelves and several red leather chairs scattered around, with carved wooden arms and matching footstools.

There was also a large desk placed just in front of the window, with an inlaid wooden surface and a couple of stacks of books that looked like they were either waiting to be read or put away. Bucky led Clint over to it and opened a couple of drawers to show him the paper and stationery supplies inside. “Everything you need is here,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Clint, pulling out some paper and then just staring at it. How did one go about drawing plans for something?

Bucky caught his expression. “It doesn’t need to be more than an idea of what you want,” he said. “Jones and Dernier are good at building things, they just need a starting point.” 

Clint nodded and settled down at the desk, picking up a pencil. “Very well.” 

He hesitated over the stretch of blank paper, then took a deep breath. What did he want his range to look like? If he were allowed to let his imagination run free, what would he want? He started sketching out targets before he’d had a chance to realise that he knew exactly what he wanted, bending over the paper and just letting his deepest wishes out on the paper.

He was vaguely aware of Bucky moving away and assumed he’d go and find something more interesting to do than watching Clint, but when he raised his head nearly an hour later, with the paper filled with his ideas, Bucky had just moved to the nearest chair and was sitting there with a book in his hand and his eyes on Clint.

He said something when he caught Clint’s eye but it was in a low drawl, as if he didn’t want to disturb the peace of the room, and Clint missed it.

Usually, he just did his best to pretend he knew what people had said but he was meant to be letting Bucky get to know him and it didn’t feel like pretending should be any part of that. At least not yet, not until Clint had worked out which bits of himself Bucky didn’t want to see so he could hide them away.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” he asked, and Bucky gave a little shake, sitting up straighter.

“I’m sorry,” he said, louder and clearer. “I just asked if you were finished.”

Clint glanced back at his rough drawings. “Yes, for all that your men are likely to be able to interpret it,” he said.

“Our men,” corrected Bucky, standing up and coming over to look down at it. He was silent for a few moments, studying what Clint had come up with, and Clint felt anxiety start to creep down his spine. What if this wasn’t right? What if he’d taken it too far?

“This is just the first idea,” he said. “I can take anything out that you don’t want.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, it’s good. I like the different target types, and the stand for your equipment. Where will you keep your bows when you’re not using them? We can put in a storage shed here,” he said, tapping part of the plan.

Clint hadn’t thought about a place to store his bows but the moment he actually considered it, he realised why. “I’ll keep them in my room,” he said. “I’d prefer that.” That way no one would be tempted to fiddle with them while he wasn’t around.

“Very well,” said Bucky. “We’ll get you a cupboard for them.” He gave Clint a sideways look, then his lips twisted into a half-smile. “One with a lock on the door that only you can open, so that you know they’re safe.”

Clint rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother saying that he wouldn’t want that. “I know it’s stupid,” he said, looking back at the range that he’d drawn, which was going to become a reality. “I just feel better when I know they’re safe.”

Back when they’d been younger and Barney had used to shoot as well, he’d had a bad habit of ‘borrowing’ Clint’s bow without asking and then returning it broken, or even not returning it at all.

“I will make sure the servants all know not to touch them,” said Bucky, and he was still smiling but it didn’t sound like he was mocking Clint. Clint fixed on his eyes, looking for some sign of what he was thinking, but there was nothing but that gentle smile, as if he found Clint’s obsession vaguely amusing but he wanted to protect it anyway.

Clint didn’t know what to do with that at all.

The clock over the mantel started to chime and he startled away from staring at Bucky, only just realising how long their eyes had been locked.

Bucky glanced over at the clock. “We should dress for dinner,” he said. “It’s being served at eight.”

Clint nodded, gathering up his plans and standing up. “Very well."

Bucky waited for him before heading out, pushing the door open and then holding it for Clint. They walked back to their bedrooms together, Clint desperately marking off landmarks along the route so that he could find his way later, when he was on his own.

He did at least recognise the door to his bedroom, because it was next to a large picture of a horse. Between his door and Bucky’s there was a small table with an elaborate candelabra on it, and Bucky paused by it as Clint opened his door.

“If you’re ready early,” he said, “I usually have a drink in the large drawing room before dinner. From around seven thirty.”

Clint nodded. “Very well,” he said, wondering how far the large drawing room was from the small one. He really was going to have to ask Coulson for directions.

Bucky gave him a wide smile, then disappeared inside his room. Clint let out a breath and went into his own, where Coulson was already laying out his evening clothes.

Time for their first dinner as a married couple in their own home. Hopefully, Clint wouldn’t mess it up too badly.

****

Clint found himself taking more care with his dining clothes than he usually did. He felt like he needed to somehow signal to Bucky that he was doing his best, and that he hadn’t made a mistake in marrying him. Once he was done, he stared at himself in the mirror, thinking about how Bucky had called him beautiful and trying to find some sign of what he might have seen in Clint to believe that.

Coulson had done an excellent job with the sharp, neat lines of his suit and cravat, but once Clint actually focused on himself, all he could see was the same useless waste of space that he’d always been. It was only a matter of time before Bucky realised who he really was.

He took a deep breath, setting his shoulders. He might as well take advantage of the peace before that happened.

“You look very smart, sir,” said Coulson, and Clint shifted his eyes in the mirror to look at Coulson behind him. ‘Smart’ was probably the best he could hope for.

“If I may,” added Coulson, and now Clint was looking at him, he signed as well, “that colour cravat brings out your eyes.”

Clint looked back at himself in the mirror, eyes flicking between the cravat and his eyes. He wasn’t sure he saw it. “I’d rather a purple one.”

Coulson’s face shifted barely at all, but somehow Clint was now feeling quietly judged. “Indeed, sir,” he said. “I did notice a preponderance of that colour in your wardrobe.”

Clint just shrugged, because it was too late to be ashamed of his favourite colour when his husband had decorated the whole room in it.

His husband. He wondered how long it would take for that to stop sounding like a joke.

Clint looked at the time, then back at Coulson. “Which way is the large drawing room?”

Coulson was definitely suppressing a smile as he said, “Allow me to show you, sir.”

It was probably for the best that he did, because the large drawing room was at the opposite end of the house to where Clint had been picturing it. Bucky was already inside, sat on a couch with a glass on the table by his side and a distant look on his face that disappeared as Clint came in. 

“Good evening,” he said, his hand moving to sign it at the same time. Or trying to; ‘evening’ was technically a two-handed sign, but Clint understood it well enough with just the one hand.

“Good evening,” he said back, and then signed it as well, because it felt strange not to return the gesture.

Bucky smiled at him and stood up, moving over to the drinks cabinet before turning back to face Clint. “What would you like to drink?” he asked, resting his hand on a decanter that looked to hold cognac.

Clint found himself hesitating, looking at Bucky’s glass, which definitely contained something alcoholic. He could feel himself tensing at the memory of watching his father drink glass after glass before dinner, knowing that the more he had, the worse the meal would be.

Bucky’s eyes followed his, then looked back at Clint with a steady, careful gaze. “There is soda water and lemonade if you would prefer them to brandy. Steve prefers not to drink, and I only usually have one or two glasses. I don’t enjoy having my head befuddled.”

Relief rolled through Clint, and he found himself smiling at Bucky without intending to. “Lemonade sounds lovely.”

Bucky nodded and turned to pour it for him, moving carefully with his hand as he added ice to the glass and then poured it, balancing the bottle with practiced ease. “Here you are,” he said, carrying it over to hand to Clint. “And, please, if there’s anything in particular you’d like stocked, just tell Wilkins.”

Clint nodded. “Of course,” he said, without any intention to do so.

Bucky turned to pick up his own glass, then held it out to Clint to toast. “Welcome to Brooklyn,” he said. “I hope it will feel like home to you in no time at all.”

Clint returned his smile, tapping their glasses together. “It already seems far nicer than my last home,” he said, and Bucky’s smile widened.

He really was astonishingly attractive when he was happy. Clint found himself wondering how he could keep him looking like that, but it seemed like a bit too much to ask that this strange situation he had found himself in, this beautiful new home and kind, handsome husband, was really his to keep.

“Particularly once the range is built, I should imagine,” said Bucky.

Clint laughed. “It’s not a home without archery targets,” he agreed, then realised that that could seem like a criticism of Brooklyn and flinched, ready for a bad reaction.

Bucky just kept grinning, and Clint reminded himself yet again that Bucky wasn’t his father.

It was something he had to keep in mind as they finished their drinks, then went in to dinner together. Conversation came easily enough between them, especially as Bucky appeared to want to know everything about Clint despite how little there was to tell. Clint found it too easy to get lost in talking to him, telling bad jokes and then coming up against the fear of having said too much, of having forgotten to guard his mouth for anything that could make Bucky angry.

Bucky showed no signs of anything other than happiness though, smiling at Clint and laughing at his jokes, even the truly feeble ones.

_I could get used to this,_ thought Clint, and then shoved the thought away, because it felt like tempting fate.

“Do you smoke?” asked Bucky, once the final plates were being cleared away. Coulson had waited on Clint, signing the occasional question even though Clint could hear perfectly well in the quiet of the room. Bucky’s valet, who Clint had discovered was called Falsworth, waited on him. Clint had noticed that Bucky’s food had been served already cut into bite-sized pieces and he remembered what Bucky had said about making changes to allow for his lost arm.

Clint shook his head and Bucky gave a relieved smile. “Me neither. Not since the war.” He hesitated, and then added, “It sometimes reminds me too vividly of the smoke on a battlefield. I find that my brain has a tendency to make unpleasant connections like that sometimes. It happens rarely now, but I used to have episodes.” The smile vanished off his face for the first time since Clint had walked into the large drawing room. “If anything like that should happen while you are present, please, just leave me be and send Falsworth to me. It’s nothing you should have to deal with.”

Clint considered that as he finished the last of his drink. “I’m not sure that’s true,” he said. “I made certain vows yesterday, after all.” Besides, Bucky seemed set on trying to sign for him and making Clint feel as at home as he could. It seemed rude for Clint to not make at least some effort in return.

Bucky just shook his head. “We both know those vows were a means to an end, not something you wanted to make for their own sake. I will not hold you to them, and certainly not over this.”

Clint studied his face. “You mean to keep yours,” he said, tentatively.

“Of course,” said Bucky. “Our situations are different. I chose this, but you were as good as coerced. I could never hold a man to a promise made under the kind of threat that your father represented.” He hesitated, then added, looking away from Clint’s eyes, “If you should ever want to make them of your own choosing, I would welcome it, but until then, please don’t ever feel pressured by them.”

_He wants me to fall in love with him,_ Clint realised with a start. The idea was such a shock that he just stared at Bucky for longer than he should have, until Bucky cleared his throat and stood up, talking about having a game of cards in a flood of words that Clint didn’t bother keeping track of as he numbly stood and followed him.

Somehow, he had never stopped to consider that love might be a part of this. Bucky’s motivations for this marriage felt even more confusing at that realisation, because what could he have seen of Clint that could possibly have made him want love to be involved, on either of their parts?

And what would he do if Clint wasn’t able to summon those feelings for him? For a split-second, he considered trying to create the illusion of falling in love with Bucky, but the idea sickened him. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life falsifying his feelings.

Besides, he had a feeling that Bucky wouldn’t be so easily fooled, and the last thing he seemed to want was any pretence from Clint. He had only asked for Clint to spend time getting to know Bucky and nothing more, and he seemed very firm on the idea of Clint getting to make his own choices, whatever they might be.

Clint took a deep breath as they settled at a table in the drawing room and Bucky found a pack of cards. He would ignore this realisation and continue as he had been, doing his best to become friends with the man and not trying to force anything else.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Clint woke up and stared at his purple bed curtains for several minutes, trying to work out why he felt so strange. It took until Coulson came in to open the curtains for him to realise that it was an absence of sick dread. He was so used to waking up every morning already bracing himself for whatever mood his father was going to be in that day that he didn't know how to react to a morning without that fear.

"Breakfast will be served in the morning room shortly, sir," said Coulson, signing at the same time. It was a good thing he did, because Clint's ears seemed to be taking longer to wake up than the rest of him had. "Would you like to bathe before then?"

Clint wouldn't usually have bothered, not when he'd be spending the day alone at his range and then washing before dinner, but he thought about Bucky and how he always looked so neatly put together. Clint should probably put in some effort, at least for the first few days. 

"Yes, please," he said, getting up.

Bucky was already at breakfast when Clint found his way to the morning room, after taking a wrong turn and having a very awkward run in with a footman who clearly knew he was in the wrong place, even if Clint had tried to play it off as taking a look around and stretching his legs.

“Good morning,” Bucky greeted him with another of his wide smiles, setting his fork down to sign at Clint. He was seated at a small table right in the window with the morning light shining down, reflecting off the silver cutlery.

Clint nodded. “Morning,” he said, wondering why he’d bothered thinking all he needed was a bath to match Bucky’s level of sartorial elegance. This morning he was in shirtsleeves and a dark blue waistcoat that reflected his eyes and made his hair shine darkly against it. Good lord, how was this astonishingly attractive man Clint’s husband?

Rather than neatly pinned up like it had been every other time Clint had seen him, Bucky’s left shirt sleeve hung empty at his side. Clint wondered why he hadn't just asked his tailor not to bother with it.

“Would you like some coffee?” Bucky offered as Clint sat down, raising a tall silver jug.

Clint eyed it carefully. Coffee was something very modern, something Barney talked about having when he went off with his friends on a trip to London. Clint had never had a chance to try it.

He didn’t want to seem naïve, though.

“Thank you,” he said, hoping that whatever it tasted like was nice enough for him to get through an entire cup, even if he didn’t like it.

Bucky poured him a mug as one of the footmen stepped closer with a plate of eggs and bacon which he set in front of Clint.

“The cook- --,” said the footman, but most of the sentence was said in the kind of derential murmur that Clint had never been able to hear very well, and was also drowned out by Bucky setting the coffee pot down.

“Sorry,” he said, trying on a self-deprecating smile and wondering how long it would take before all the servants thought he was an idiot. “I didn’t catch that, could you say it again?”

The footman straightened and repeated his words louder and clearer. “The cook hopes this will do for your first breakfast here, and asks that you let her know your usual preferences so that she can prepare them in the future.”

Clint looked down at the plate. “Tell her this looks excellent,” he said. “I’ll be happy with whatever she provides.”

Bucky let out a sigh loud enough for even Clint’s ears to hear. “You’re allowed to ask for things,” he said. “What would you choose to eat if there was a buffet of every breakfast food you can imagine?”

Clint hesitated, then shrugged. “Eggs and bacon, probably,” he admitted. “This really does look good.”

“Very well,” said Bucky, and made a gesture at the footman to dismiss him. “Do remember that you are the master of this household now,” he said, once the footman was out of the room. “You are in control of it all, you just need to tell the servants what you want. The food, meal timings, the decor; any of it can be changed.”

Clint raised an eyebrow at him. “You’d let me redecorate the entire house? Rip out everything here and start again?”

“Of course,” said Bucky. “If it would make you more comfortable.” He hesitated, then added, “I’d only ask that you left my study alone, and the portrait of my family in the large drawing room.”

Clint shook his head. “I’m not going to change things here,” he said, and then, when Bucky frowned, he added, “I like it all too much.”

That lit up Bucky’s face and Clint let his shoulders relax, because he hadn’t managed to upset him, not yet.

Bolstered by his success, he picked up the cup of coffee Bucky had poured him. It smelled incredible. There was no way it could taste anything like as good. He took a careful sip, letting the hot liquid slowly pass over his tongue. It was more bitter than he’d expected but there was something about it that made him want to keep drinking more regardless. He took another sip, then set it down to find Bucky watching him with an amused look.

“Your first cup?” he asked, because apparently Clint had been obvious.

Clint just gave a shrug as he turned his attention to the plate in front of him. “I’m having a lot of new experiences at the moment.”

Bucky nodded at that, turning his attention to his own breakfast. “If you don’t enjoy it, we have tea as well. I just prefer to start my day with coffee, so when Steve isn't here they don't prepare tea.”

Clint nodded, then reached out for another sip of coffee. It was growing on him fast. “I think I’ll be fine with this,” he said. “It’s nice.”

“It wakes you up like nothing else I’ve ever had,” said Bucky, taking a gulp of his own cup and then pouring himself more. “When I have a sleepless night, it’s an invaluable aid.”

“Did you not sleep well last night?” asked Clint, and Bucky gave him a wry smile.

“I slept as well as I expected to,” he said, which didn’t seem like much of an answer. “What are your plans for the day? Your range won’t be finished for a few days, I’m afraid.”

Clint allowed the change of subject. “I don’t really have any,” he said. “I want to go over my bows and arrows, make sure they all survived the journey intact.” He glanced out at the bright sunny morning. “I suppose other than that I just want to have a look around and get to know the place.” There was a sprawl of woodland at the bottom of the lawn that looked like a good place to wander through.

Bucky nodded. “I start every day with a ride,” he said. “You are more than welcome to join me.”

Clint was already shaking his head before Bucky finished. “I don’t have a lot of skill with horses,” he said.

Bucky frowned. “I saw your father’s stables while I was there,” he said. “There were several fine animals.”

“Yes,” agreed Clint, because one thing the Baron hadn’t yet sold off was his horses.

Bucky’s face went dark. “Were you not allowed to ride either?” 

The expression on his face was so dark that Clint felt himself shrinking away, because that was a look that said he was contemplating violence. Even if it wasn’t aimed at Clint himself, he couldn’t help thinking about the quickest way out of the room. Bucky was between him and the door he’d come in, but there was a servant’s door behind him, he could get out that way, hopefully before Bucky grabbed for him.

“No,” he said, and he couldn’t keep his voice from wavering. “Or, well, not because my father said I wasn’t. I was taught as a child, of course.”

The look on Bucky’s face eased up and Clint felt his heart restart. Stupid, he was being stupid. Nothing about that should have made his blood rush with fear, and Bucky still hadn’t shown any signs of a violent personality.

“So it’s that you don’t like horses, then?”

Clint shook his head. “No, I like most animals. But when we were boys, Barney and I used to argue over everything: the archery range and the bows, the stables and who got to ride which horse, even which parts of the grounds we each had as our hideouts. As we got older, it got out of hand, until we agreed to just divide everything up so we had clear boundaries. In exchange for Barney leaving the range alone, I agreed not to go near the stables.”

It had been a truce he’d been glad to agree to. As much as he missed the calm, friendly presence of the horses he’d learnt to ride on, the range had always been the only place he’d ever wanted for his own.

“I see,” said Bucky, although the tone of his voice made Clint think that he didn’t. “I suppose that growing up with a sister spared me from that kind of rivalry. Although, Steve was as much as a brother to me, and we never really quarrelled.”

“Steve grew up here?” asked Clint, because he’d thought they’d met while in the Army.

Bucky nodded. “His father was my father’s steward, until he passed,” he said. “Afterwards, my father let Steve and his mother stay on, and then paid for Steve's schooling when she died as well. When Steve decided he wanted to join the army, my father bought him a commission.”

“That was kind of him,” said Clint, trying to imagine his father doing anything other than throwing out anyone who couldn’t earn their keep.

“He was a kind man,” said Bucky. There was a bleak tone to his voice that made Clint drop the topic immediately. 

Instead, he picked up his coffee and was surprised to find the cup nearly empty. That had disappeared quickly. He eyed the pot and Bucky cracked a smile, nudging it towards him.

“There’s still some left.”

Clint grinned at him and topped his cup up. He really wasn’t going to need them to make him tea in the mornings.

"If you intend to explore today, would you like to start with the stables?" Bucky asked. "Not to ride if you don't want to, but I can show you around and introduce you to Jim Morita. He's the head groom."

It was clearly important to Bucky and Clint didn't have any definite plans, so he agreed. 

The smile Bucky gave him in response was wider than Clint thought was warranted, but he was beginning to realise that Bucky was a very easy man to make happy.

"Very well then," Bucky said, standing up. "I need to get ready for my ride, but I'll meet you in the entrance hall in fifteen minutes."

Clint glanced at the clock and nodded, then had his attention completely torn away from anything else as Bucky walked towards the door, and Clint caught sight of his riding breeches.

They were cream, with a darker golden stripe down the side of each leg, and tight enough to highlight the solid, beautiful lines of Bucky’s thighs. His waistcoat was short enough to only skim the top of his behind, giving Clint a full view of the perfect shape of it.

He didn’t realise until the door had shut behind Bucky that he’d been staring at it the whole time, and forced himself to tear his eyes away and look out the window instead. Christ, was he going to be treated to that sight every morning at breakfast?

He could definitely learn to live with that.

The footman came back in to clear the plates away, and Clint picked up his coffee mug so that it wouldn’t get taken before he could finish it, clearing his throat and hoping that nothing of his thoughts was on his face.

The footman hesitated before he cleared the plates then carefully, clumsily, signed, _Do you want anything else, sir?_ , before remembering that he was meant to speak at the same time and rushing the question out loud, too fast for Clint to catch more than a word or two.

He must have been included in Coulson’s lessons. Clint gave him a smile, because he looked as if he were worrying that he’d got it wrong. “No, thank you, I’m fine,” he said, then hesitated. Bucky had been doing his best to make it clear that Clint was allowed to ask for anything, perhaps it was time for Clint to trust that and stop acting as he always had at home.

“Could you tell the cook for tomorrow that I prefer poached eggs to fried?” he said. “And some toast with them?”

The footman nodded. “Of course, sir.”

“And lots of this,” added Clint, raising the cup of coffee. “I’ll definitely want this every morning from now on.”

“Yes, sir,” said the footman, and Clint thought he could hear a smile in his voice but it didn’t feel like he was being mocked, not like it had from the servants at Waverley Hall, so he just grinned back, and looked back out of the window at the view of the hills as the footman cleared the table.

The light, relaxed feeling from this morning hadn’t gone anywhere. He wondered if it were here to stay now.

****

Clint finished his coffee and arrived in the entrance hall before Bucky came back downstairs. He entertained himself as he waited by going around and looking at the pictures around the walls, which seemed to be mainly views of various parts of the Brooklyn estate, horses, or the occasional portrait of someone Clint assumed was somehow related to Bucky.

When Bucky did come down, it took Clint a moment to realise why he looked so different, largely because he was distracted by the sight of his thighs in those breeches again. He'd put a dark blue riding jacket on over his waistcoat, but it was cut high enough to leave his thighs on full show in a way that felt like it should have been indecent.

It was only when Clint pulled his eyes up to Bucky's face that he identified the difference. 

There was an arm in Bucky’s left sleeve. Clint blinked, saw it ended in two neatly curved hooks rather than a hand, and realised it was a prosthetic.

Bucky caught his look and grimaced. “Riding is one of the things that is more difficult when you’re off-balance,” he said. “Stark built me this to help compensate.”

Clint nodded and looked away from it, because there was a note of discomfort in Bucky's voice that Clint didn’t want to encourage. “I had heard that Earl Stark liked to make things.”

Bucky snorted as he led the way out of the front door and down the wide stone steps. “It goes beyond liking, it’s an obsession,” he said. “He spends half his time locked away, coming up with all kinds of machines, many of them steam-driven. He offered to make me a steam-powered arm, but I’ve seen rather too many of his machines blow apart to take him up on it.”

“That sounds very wise,” said Clint, and earned himself a grin.

Bucky’s horse, a large white stallion, was already saddled and waiting for him outside the stables, held by the groom.

“Morning, sir,” he said, with that same easy tone that Jones had had the day before.

“Morning,” said Bucky, all his focus fixed on his horse. “Hey there, Alpine,” he said, stroking his nose gently. “Did you miss me?” The horse snorted and moved into his touch, as if seeking it out. Clint watched the gentle movement of Bucky’s hand and felt like he was intruding. He looked at the groom instead, who had an amused smile that said this was normal.

“I’m Jim Morita, Mr Barnes,” he said, touching his cap in a gesture that looked more like a salute than the usual sign of a servant’s deference. Clint thought he must be another old soldier. “I run the stables. Do you have a horse coming over from your old home?”

“No,” said Clint, looking back at where Bucky was petting his horse and wondering if maybe he should have fought harder with Barney over access to the stables. He could see Bucky was still muttering sweet nothings to the horse, although his ears couldn’t make them out.

“No matter, I’m sure the Lieutenant will get you one soon,” said Morita. “In the meantime we have a couple you can choose from if you’d like me to saddle one up for you now.”

Clint shook his head. “No, no, that’s fine. I won’t be riding.”

Bucky finally tore himself away from his horse to turn back to him. “Your brother isn’t here,” he reminded him. “Morita is an excellent judge of horses, we could find you the perfect mount.”

Clint hesitated, and Bucky smiled, clearly knowing that meant he’d won. “Morita, keep an ear out for horses coming up for sale that might be suitable.”

“Yes, sir,” said Morita, grinning. “I do like getting to add to our beauties here.”

“Let me show the other horses to you,” said Bucky, stroking Alpine’s nose one last time. “I’ll be back in a minute, Morita.”

“Of course, sir,” said Morita, in a tone that said he knew he’d be waiting a while. He stepped back closer to Alpine, who was starting to look a little restless. “Me and Alpine will just have a nice walk around the yard, how about that, boy?”

There were more horses than Clint would have expected inside the stables. Not just the two carriage horses that had brought them here the day before, but another pair as well, and a quiet-looking mare and another stallion, this one a rich chestnut colour. They all trotted over to Bucky as he stopped by their stalls, clearly used to seeing him, and he stroked them all as he introduced Clint to them.

“And this is Justice,” said Bucky, petting the stallion. He added something, but Justice chose to snort and stamp a hoof at the same time, and Clint missed it. The acoustics of the stable weren’t the best for his ears and the only reason he’d heard everything Bucky had been saying was because of how careful Bucky had been to speak clearly. 

“Sorry?” he asked, and every time he let himself trust that he was allowed to show weakness in front of Bucky, it got easier. One day, that would doubtless backfire on him, but for now Bucky just smiled and repeated himself.

“He’s Steve’s.”

“Captain Rogers called his horse Justice,” said Clint. “Really?”

Bucky grinned at him. “Not quite. Steve was stupid enough to let me name him,” he said. “Trust me, once you get to know Steve a bit better, you’ll understand why I picked that.”

Clint reached out a hand to stroke Justice’s nose. “When I get my horse, remind me not to let you have any input on the name.”

"Oh, I would come up with something far better for you," said Bucky. He considered the issue for a moment. "Arrow, perhaps."

Clint hesitated, because that actually sounded like a great name for a horse. "We haven't even found a horse yet," he said, cautiously. "We'll have to see what suits."

"Of course," said Bucky. "Justice suits this boy very well, doesn't it?" He turned to Justice and patted his neck, and Justice let out a whiffle of air and gave him a condescending look. Clint could see it.

Steve's horse, and yet he was in Bucky's stables. Clint considered that, thinking about how tea and lemonade were kept ready for Steve, apparently all the time and not just when he visited. 

"Where is Captain Rogers currently?"

"He's staying with Stark," said Bucky, still distracted by petting Justice.

Clint nodded. "And where does he live?"

Bucky hesitated, and Clint knew he'd hit on the point.

"It's here, isn't it?"

Bucky sighed. "Yes," he said. "But there are other places he can go. We just both grew used to being close and there didn't seem any point in him getting his own place. Now I am married, it's different of course."

Clint shook his head. "No, don't change things on my account. If this is his home, then it should remain so."

"It's your home too," said Bucky. 

Clint nodded, although he hadn't quite got his head around that yet. "He's your friend, " he said, then hesitated and added, "your brother," because their relationship sounded different to his and Barney's, but that didn't make it any less family. "Write and tell him he's welcome back whenever he wants."

“Oh no,” said Bucky. “Not whenever he wants. I made it very clear to everyone that they weren’t to call for at least a week, and that goes for him as well. I want us to have time alone to get to know each other.”

Clint didn’t know how to react to that, so he just nodded, wondering what would happen if Bucky found he didn’t like what he got to know about Clint.

“And after a week?” he asked.

Bucky was still petting Justice, but Clint had a feeling his full attention wasn’t on the horse any more. “I was intending to invite my closest friends to a cards evening, so that you might meet them properly,” he said, then glanced at Clint with a worried look. "Only three or four people, and it would include Miss Romanov.”

Clint nodded. “A cards evening,” he said, slowly. “So you want me to teach you to cheat before then, so you can win Earl Stark’s money from him?”

The worry cleared off Bucky's face and was replaced by a mischievous grin. “Precisely.” He gave Justice one last pat, then turned away to face Clint full on. “Don’t feel you have to go along with any of this if you don’t want to, though. We can leave the party for another time, until you’re more settled. Or if you’d prefer not to be alone with me for that long-”

“No,” Clint interrupted him, because even if he hadn’t already decided that he was going to give Bucky the chance he so clearly wanted, he rather liked the idea of spending a week teaching him how to cheat, and finding out more about him. “It sounds like an excellent idea. We barely know each other, after all.”

Bucky nodded, looking relieved, and Clint was struck all over again by how much he seemed to care about Clint’s opinion of him.

“And we seem to be getting on well enough so far,” he added, and a pleased look took over Bucky’s face, as if Clint had paid him a far higher compliment.

“I think so,” he said. “I’m glad you do too.”

Clint couldn’t stop himself from smiling back, and there was a moment when they were just caught, grinning at each other, and Clint felt an unfamiliar flush of happiness because this might actually turn out to be a good situation for him.

They headed back out of the stables and Bucky waved at Morita, who had led Alpine some distance away.

"You're sure you won't join me?" he said as Morita turned to bring the horse back over.

"Yes, thank you," said Clint. "I'd like to explore the grounds on foot for the morning." He hesitated, then added, "Is there anywhere I shouldn't go?"

Bucky shook his head. "I'm not Bluebeard, there are no secrets here. Not from you."

Clint nodded and stood back as Morita and Alpine approached, giving Bucky space to mount. Morita helped Bucky thread the reins through his prosthetic with as much casual ease as he had helped him on to the horse.

"I'll see you at lunch," Bucky said, looking down from Alpine's back. Clint did his best not to stare at his thighs, which were now at his eye height and tensed around Alpine's flanks in a way that highlighted the strength of Bucky's muscles.

"Have a good ride," he said.

Bucky nodded with a fierce grin. "Always," he said, then nudged Alpine with his knees and they set off at a gallop, shooting forward towards the woods together as if they were one creature. Clint couldn't take his eyes off the strong line of Bucky's back as they headed off together. 

"He's always that reckless on horseback," said a loud voice behind him, and Clint turned to see a girl a couple of years younger than him, also staring off after Bucky. "One day he’ll fall off and lose his other arm.”

“Kate!” exclaimed Morita, and she just shrugged, then looked Clint over.

“You’re the new husband,” she said. 

“That’s right,” said Clint, amused despite himself. “Do you have any judgements to pass on me?”

She eyed him for a moment, then shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”

“Kate!” said Morita again, striding over to glare at her. “Get inside and muck out Alpine’s stall before the Lieutenant gets back.”

She rolled her eyes but went, and Morita gave Clint an uneasy look. “I apologise for her, sir,” he said. “She’s not used to being in service yet, but I will speak to her about showing respect.” He hesitated, then added, “She’s my cousin, and she needed a place, please don’t ask her to leave.”

“I’m not going to ask anyone to leave,” said Clint. “Especially not someone just speaking their mind.” He’d spent enough time in a house where everyone was terrified of having a personality. He wasn’t living like that any longer.

Morita’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, sir.”

Clint shrugged that off, suddenly feeling awkward about the whole thing. He’d never had any power at Waverley Hall so the servants had never really worried about how they acted towards him. The idea that people would now be scared they might lose their jobs if he decided he didn’t like them made him feel very uncomfortable.

“Which is the best way to walk to see the grounds?” he asked, and Morita pointed him off along a track that he said circled around the house, through the woods. Clint set off along it, relieved that he was going to be alone for the next few hours. Between juggling the servants’ opinions and Bucky’s hopes for their relationship, it all felt like a lot of pressure.

****

The woods around the formal part of the grounds extended for a couple of miles south and east, so Clint had plenty of space to explore, coming upon the road in one direction, then turning and heading back again, until he found a low wall with a farm beyond it. He stood for a minute or two, looking out at the view and smiling, because this was his home now. These woods were his to wander around as much as he wanted without worrying that he’d stay out too long and make his father angry; he could walk down the road if he chose, down into the village, without the fear that his father would find out. He could even climb over the wall and go and talk to the farm workers he could see two fields over, and they wouldn’t have any preconcieved notions about the stupid, damaged younger son of the Baron.

He didn’t do any of those things, though. Instead, he turned his feet towards the house, because he’d told Bucky he’d be back in time to have lunch with him.

Clint stayed in the woods as long as possible, edging around the lawn towards the orchard rather than cutting across it. It had turned into a warm summer’s day and the sun was hot enough for him to sweat gently when he was out of the shade of the trees.

He could see Jones and another man, who must be Dernier, working at the pile of lumber that would soon become his range, and thought about going over to see how progress was going, but he didn’t want them to think he was being impatient when they’d only just started.

Not that he wasn’t impatient. Between the wedding preparations and getting ready to move out of his father’s house, he hadn’t had nearly as much time at the range as he’d have liked over the last couple of weeks. He was very much looking forward to making up for that.

He followed the lawn around to the edge of the lake instead, keeping a few feet inside the treeline. The woods edged right around the lake, tree roots sinking down at the water’s edge, and Clint stopped to enjoy the view, watching a pair of ducks chase each other. The air had grown warmer as the morning had worn on,and sunlight was glinting off the water.

The realisation that this was his home now hit him again. He wondered how long it would take for him to become comfortable with it. Probably about as long as it took before he was able to shoot at the range and settle in to the meditative peace of drawing back and firing.

There was movement on the far shore of the lake and Clint watched as Bucky and Alpine emerged from the trees lining the drive, moving at a trot that Bucky managed to make look smooth and seamless.

Clint’s hearing may have been terrible but his eyesight was excellent. Even from this distance he could see the look on Bucky’s face, relaxed and open as he looked up at the house, then around at the lake.

Instead of continuing along the drive towards the stables, Bucky pulled Alpine down to the lake, leaning forward to pet his neck when he pulled to a stop. He glanced around at the grounds again and Clint moved back further behind a tree so he was out of sight, interested to see how Bucky acted when he thought he was alone.

Bucky got off Alpine’s back with more grace than Clint would have thought, given the help he’d needed to get up on him, then took his jacket off, laying it carefully over the saddle while Alpine held still for him. Clint moved closer to the tree, frowning as he looked through the leaves, trying to work out what Bucky was up to.

The waistcoat came off next, then the cravat. Bucky loosened the throat of his shirt, then reached inside, pulling free a strap that he used to bind the wrist of his prosthetic, holding it close against his chest.

Alpine was grazing quietly on the grass, not moving further away than a step or two, as if this were completely normal.

Bucky struggled a bit more with his boots, but got them off and set them next to his other clothes. He rested his hand on the hem of his shirt, and for a moment Clint thought he was going to take that off as well, which would have been a bit much when any maid or housekeeper could have glanced out of the window and seen him, but instead Bucky just tucked it more firmly into the waist of his breeches.

He took a step or two backwards, braced himself, then sprinted towards the lake, diving in with an elegant motion that made Clint’s breath catch in his throat.

Clint was so close to the tree as to be hugging it now, watching with wide eyes as Bucky emerged from the water, flicking his hair back with a spray of droplets. His shirt clung to his chest and shoulders, translucent from the water.

He was the most beautiful person Clint had ever seen. Not that he’d had the chance to see many people, but Clint couldn’t imagine anyone else ever looking as handsome.

Bucky swam a few metres out into the middle of the lake, looking smooth enough even with only one arm, and the prosthetic strapped to his chest, that Clint became sure that this was a habit for him. Which meant it was something Clint would be able to watch day after day, as long as he found himself in these woods at the right time.

The thought of deliberately hiding to watch seemed wrong, though. Clint was here by pure chance today, but hiding away to watch on purpose when Bucky thought he was alone seemed wrong. No matter how tempting it was.

Bucky only swam for a few minutes, then turned on his back to float for a few more, head tipped up towards the sun and his eyes shut. Clint tried to convince himself to move away and leave him to it, but he couldn’t bring his feet to move. Bucky might hear him, after all. Clint was never sure just how much normal people could hear because it had been so long since his ears had worked fully. If he trod on a stick and broke it, Bucky might hear, and know Clint had been watching him.

That was the sole reason that he stayed locked in place as Bucky floated for a while longer, then turned over to head back to the shore.

The lake was clearly shallow at the edges, because Bucky stood up, water cascading off him, and just strode out of it. His wet clothes clung to him, every line of his chest and thighs highlighted in a way that seemed horribly inappropriate but that Clint couldn’t take his eyes off.

_That’s my husband,_ he thought, with a dazed sense of disbelief.

Bucky shoved his feet back into his boots but didn’t bother putting on the rest of his clothes. He just made sure they were firmly draped over Alpine’s saddle, then caught his reins and led him in the direction of the stables. Clint watched him go until he was out of sight, then drew in a sharp breath and made himself step away from the tree.

Living here was definitely going to be better than Waverley Hall had been.

****

Bucky had arranged for them to eat lunch on the wide veranda, out in the sun. When Clint arrived, he was already waiting, dressed in a new outfit of entirely dry clothes. The only sign of his swim was the damp curl of his hair over his forehead, and the images that Clint wasn’t sure he would ever shift out of his mind’s eye.

He said something as Clint sat down but Clint wasn’t watching Bucky’s mouth and the wind snatched away all but a few garbled syllables.

“I’m sorry?” he said, and then watched Bucky’s mouth closely as he repeated himself. As nice as it was to eat outside, it made things rather more difficult for his ears than being inside, enclosed in a quiet room. He missed a word or two, but caught enough to work out what Bucky was saying.

“Did you...a good morning?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Clint. “I think I must have walked all around the grounds. The woods are lovely.”

Bucky smiled with satisfaction as the footmen set their food down for them and said something else, but Clint missed that as well.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t catch that either.” He hesitated, and then decided to come clean before they spent the whole meal going around in circles. “It’s lovely out here, but it’s difficult for my hearing.”

Bucky blinked as if he hadn’t considered that, which he probably hadn’t. In Clint’s experience, people who could hear properly never really noticed which situations were better or worse for acoustics. Bucky glanced down the lawn to the trees, then back at Clint. “Tomorrow we’ll eat indoors,” he said, pitching his voice louder.

“Oh no,” said Clint. “If you prefer it out here then-”

“I prefer… able to talk to...” said Bucky, then clearly caught Clint’s squint as he tried to piece that together, and frowned. He turned to one of the footmen and said something that Clint didn’t have a hope of catching, and the man scuttled off.

Clint winced to himself because he was causing problems, and that usually meant he was going to get yelled at, or worse. He told himself that Bucky wasn’t Lord Barton, and he didn’t seem like he was going to do that, but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking that it was only a matter of time before Clint caused one problem too many and Bucky lost any interest in trying to work around him.

Bucky picked up his fork and nodded at Clint’s plate in a clear sign that he should start eating. Clint picked up his own cutlery with a sinking feeling, because Bucky hadn’t even bothered trying to talk to him. He was just resorting to gestures, like you would with a dog who had problems understanding commands.

When the footman came back, a few minutes later, Coulson was with him. Bucky said something rapid to him, then Coulson turned to Clint and signed, “Lieutenant Barnes has asked me to translate his words for you. He’s sorry that he didn’t consider the effect of the wind on your hearing when he arranged lunch outside.”

“It’s fine,” said Clint, feeling heat rush over his body. Two footmen had stayed outside once they’d finished serving, standing unobtrusively by the wall in case they were needed and staring out at the garden as if they weren’t paying attention to every word and movement that was going on, ready to report it all back downstairs as soon as they were able. “You don’t need to pander to me.”

The look Bucky gave him was very long-suffering. He started talking and Coulson signed along with his words, standing just slightly behind Bucky where Clint could easily see his gestures. “I told you, it’s not pandering. And if it were, it would be pandering to me, not you.” He shifted the stump of his missing arm, where his sleeve was pinned up again with no sign of the prosthetic he’d worn to go riding. “If I had both hands, I’d be able to talk to you myself using sign language. I told you I attempted to learn it.”

“You don’t need to do that,” said Clint, because it seemed like Bucky had already done so many things for him, and he wasn’t sure how he’d ever pay them back.

“I _can’t_ do that,” said Bucky, and his tone was harsh enough that it cut through the air, making Coulson’s translation unnecessary. Clint felt himself flinch back from the tone and then hated himself for it. He didn’t want Bucky to think he was pathetic.

Bucky saw the flinch and his face softened. He took a deep breath, then rubbed his hand in the sign for ‘sorry’ on his chest. “It frustrates me when there are things I can’t do,” he said, softly enough that Clint did need to look at Coulson’s translation.

Clint nodded, because he knew how that felt. He concentrated on his food for a few minutes, considering the matter. He could remember learning sign language with Barney, the two of them coming up with stupid jokes to help them remember all the vocabulary, and even creating a couple of signs of their own, most of them warnings about the Baron’s location or state of mind. Looking back, it had been the closest they’d ever been as brothers, even more so than their long card games, when they’d both been cheating so much that there was never a winner.

“This is how to ask ‘how was your morning?’” he said, signing it slowly. Bucky paused in place, his eyes flicking over the movements. “For one hand, we could change it to this,” added Clint, dropping his left hand and then repeating the phrase, amending it in what felt like the most logical way. Bucky’s eyes darted over the movement, then he put his fork down and hesitantly repeated the gestures.

“It was good, thank you,” said Clint, and he signed along with his words, then added, “How was your ride?”

The smile Bucky gave him made a warm glow surge down through Clint’s chest, and he pushed aside the self-consciousness of having Coulson and the footmen watching, because what were they going to gossip about in the servant’s hall that they didn’t already know? Their master had married a deaf man who he didn’t know well, and they were slowly feeling their way towards how the marriage would work. Clint shouldn’t feel ashamed of that.

“It was good,” said Bucky, and his lessons must have got as far as ‘good’, because he was able to sign that as he spoke. “I always start my day with a ride.”

“And a swim?” asked Clint, before he could stop himself, and cursed his impulsive tongue.

Bucky blinked, and his cheeks went faintly pink in a way that was fascinating to watch. “Ah, only when the weather is warm. You saw me?”

Clint just nodded. “It looked refreshing,” he said, which was one of only a number of things it had looked, but the only one he was willing to admit to.

Bucky concentrated down at his plate and Clint had to flick his eyes to Coulson’s translation to understand his response. “You would be welcome to join me, next time.”

Clint’s mind went blank and he just stared at Bucky for a few seconds, unable to form any sort of response to that. Luckily, Bucky didn’t look up to see the stunned look on his face, focusing hard on his plate.

A footman interrupted them as the moment stretched into awkwardness, and Clint had never been more relieved to see a servant.

“Lieutenant Barnes, Mr Barnes, the post has arrived.”

He was holding a silver tray topped with a handful of letters, which Bucky set his fork down to take from him. 

“Thank you,” he said, setting them down so he could flick through them. “Wedding well wishes from people I deliberately didn’t invite, business, business, letter from my sister,” he stopped to pull that one out and set it to one side, “more business, oh, this one is for you.” He pulled an envelope free and passed it across to Clint, then continued as if nothing strange had happened. “Letter from Steve, no doubt complaining about Stark already, as if it weren’t his idea to stay with him, business, and more business.” He sighed and pushed the stack back together. “I shall be spending my afternoon in my study then, dealing with business.”

Clint was barely listening. He was staring down at the envelope neatly made out to _Mr Clinton Barnes_ and wondering if he’d ever seen a letter addressed to him before. He couldn’t remember one.

He opened it up and flicked over the page, looking at the signature at the bottom. It was from his mother.

He hadn’t even recognised her handwriting. He wondered what that said about their family. Nothing good, probably.

A hand waved in his peripheral vision and he looked up to see Bucky frowning at him. “Is everything well?” he asked, in a loud, clear voice that probably meant Clint had missed the first couple of times he’d said it.

“Fine,” said Clint, folding the letter and tucking it into his pocket to be read later. “I wasn’t expecting my mother to write so soon,” he added, rather than admitting that he was surprised that she would write at all. Other than the conversation they'd had the morning he’d left, he couldn’t remember the last time they’d properly spoken. The shadow of the Baron had hung over any interaction that took place at Waverley Hall, so that even when he wasn’t around they all spoke in hushed tones, and as little as possible.

“She must miss having you around,” said Bucky. He glanced back down at the letter from his sister. “The transition when children grow up and leave home is a difficult one.”

“Barney’s still at home,” said Clint although he knew that wasn’t true. The moment Barney had grown old enough to fall in with a group of friends who would let him stay with them, he’d taken to gallivanting around the country as much as possible, avoiding Waverley Hall until he was completely out of money and had to come back until he’d cheated enough people at cards to take off for London or Brighton, or any other pleasure town.

Things must be very difficult for their mother now that she was as good as alone with the Baron. Clint felt a shard of guilt stab through him at having left her there, but there was nothing else he could have done. Even if he had been able to stay without incurring the Baron’s wrath, all it would have done was kept both him and his mother trapped in misery. There was no way out of the situation for her.

After lunch, Bucky retired to his study to deal with whatever business the letters had brought him. Clint had thought that he’d have left the running of the family business to other men, but it seemed he still kept a close eye on it, unlike Clint’s family, who had handed all their estates and affairs over to managers generations ago and then spent their time spending all the profits as frivolously as possible. 

Clint went to his room, where he sat on his bed and read the letter from his mother.

_Dear Clint,_

_As I write this, you must be arriving at your new home, unless you have been delayed on the road. I do hope you are liking it there. When I was a girl, my family passed by where Brooklyn was being built on our way to visit some relative or another, and I remember my father commenting with derision about the moderness of the plans. That was many years ago now, I daresay it doesn’t seem so modern to your eyes._

Clint couldn’t remember ever meeting his mother’s family. He knew his grandfather had died when he was around twelve, because he could remember his mother weeping while the Baron told her that of course they weren’t going to travel down to Kent for the funeral. He tried to picture his mother as a girl, riding in a carriage with her family and showing interest in the world around her, but he couldn’t bring an image of it to mind.

_I remember when I first came to Waverley Hall. It felt very strange to know a place was now my home when I couldn’t find my way around it, but I settled in no time, and I hope you will too. I hope the household are welcoming. You said that Lieutenant Barnes was intending to build you an archery range, please do tell me if he does. I should like to see a sketch of it, so I would be able to picture you there, shooting arrow after arrow with that single-minded focus you always have. I always found it so strange when your tutors complained that you were a distracted, daydreaming pupil when I knew you could happily spend a whole afternoon focused completely on a target._

Clint had been a poor pupil mostly because, after the first one who had known sign language but not how to hold his tongue in front of the Baron, none of his tutors had made much of an effort to make sure he could hear them clearly. It had seemed far easier to just drift into a daydream about fighting criminals with a bow and arrows rather than try and understand what they were saying.

_Your brother has gone away too now. He left just after lunch to visit one of his friends, and then I think he intends to go to Brighton._

So she was alone with the Baron. Clint tried to hope that without him and Barney around, causing noise and upsetting the Baron with their presence, things would be easier for her, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. The things the Baron had complained about had only ever really been excuses for him to let loose his temper on whoever was nearest.

_Please do write and tell me how you are settling in, and how you are finding Brooklyn, and how Lieutenant Barnes is doing, when you have time._

_Until then, I will be your affectionate mother,_

_Lady Barton_

Clint set the letter aside and let out a long breath. The lump of guilt at having left her behind sat heavily in his chest, weighing down all the new lightness he had felt this morning. 

He couldn’t get her out of her situation but he could at least write to her. He stood up, and then realised that he didn’t have paper or envelopes in his room, because he’d never needed to reply to a letter before.

There would be some in the library. He could write in there as well, where he’d have a view of the new range being built.

He pushed aside the idea that he needed to ask Bucky’s permission before using anything he hadn’t brought with him. Bucky had been very clear that Brooklyn was his home too, and the things within it were his to use as he wished.

He wondered how long it would take for him to fully believe that.

He found writing paper easily enough in the desk, then settled at it, listening to the sounds of his range being built on the lawn below. He wrote out his new address in the top corner, then hesitated. What should he say to her? Now he knew his father tampered with the post, he wasn't even sure his letter would get to her, but he thought that either way, it seemed likely the Baron would end up reading it. Clint would need to be careful not to write anything that would make him angry, because the only person left in the house for him to take it out on was Clint’s mother. 

He glanced at her letter again for inspiration, and realised exactly what she wanted to hear from him.

_Dear Mother,_

_I am settling in well at Brooklyn. Lieutenant Barnes has been very kind and welcoming, and has already arranged for work to start on an archery range for me._

He hesitated, and then added, _I don’t believe I could have asked for a more thoughtful husband,_ with the intention of laying her worry to rest, and then found himself staring at the sentence when he realised that he meant every word of it.

Every fear he had had about this marriage Bucky had already managed to lay to rest, not just once, but multiple times. The only times he had shown signs of anger had been on Clint’s behalf, not at him; he had made it clear that he hoped to introduce Clint to his friends, and to include him in his socialising; he had taken any sign that there was some way to make Clint feel more at home, and he had acted on them all.

Clint looked back at the letter from his mother, full of the unspoken fear that his marriage would be the same as hers, and wondered how he could express in a letter just how completely different it was already.

The careful, guarded part of himself tried to point out that it had been less than two days, but Clint stifled it for now. Bucky wanted to make Clint happy, and he wanted them to grow closer as they got to know each other. Clint could help him make that happen, and build a future with him that would put the miseries of his childhood into the distant past.

He just needed to make sure that he was the best possible version of himself, so that he didn’t mess this chance up. He took a deep breath and let resolve fill him up. He could do this.

_I think I’m going to be very happy here_ , he wrote, and smiled to himself.


End file.
